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LIBRARY OF.OONGRESS. 

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DNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



VOICES FROM A BUSY LIFE 



SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS 



OF THE LATE 



EDWARD A. WASHBURN, D.D. 




NEW YORK 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 

900 BROADWAY, COR. 20TH STREET 



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COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY. 



NEW YORK : 
EDWARD O. JENKINS, ROBERT RUTTER, 

Printer and Stereotyper^ Binder^ 

20 North V/illiam St. 116 & 118 E. 14th St. 



PREFACE 



" In everything ye are enriched by hi?n : in all 
utte?'a7tce" 

Such is the Apostle's description of thaJ faculty 
of our nature which gives outward expression to the 
Spiritual element withifi us. To the many friends 
who never knew this side of his nature, this little 
book will shew the rare poiuer of poetical utterance 
which em-iched the nature of the late Dr. Wash- 
burn. 

Wm. Wilberforce Newton. 

August 23, 1883. 



MOTTO FROM DANTE'S PARADISO. 

" Here are descried 
Those who with modesty themselves confessed 
Work of his goodness unto whom they owe 
The high attainments that have made them blest. 
Whence through enlightening grace, from Heaven 

obtained, 
And their own merit, tJuy raised their sight so high, 
A will complete and steadfast they have gained." 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface 3 

Motto 5 

Thorwaldsen's Christ 9 

The Lost Thought 12 

Requiem 14 

The Fountain of Youth 16 

Twilight on the River 20 

The Minnow 22 

The Cm and the Leper 25 

Pygmalion 27 

Leaves 34 

The Vision of Youth 35 

The Aurora 38 

Love Thou? — The Heart's Answer to 

" Love Not " 41 

Silent Love 43 

The Air-Plant 44 

Song—" Love is Blind " 45 

The Trysting-Tree 48 

The Maiden's Prayer 50 

Song 53 

5 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Portrait 55 

The Banian 57 

Voices of the Sea 60 

The Deserted Convent 62 

Easter on Mount Olivet 66 

A Bunch of Fucus Natans, gathered off 

the Azores 71 

Lines Written in a Volume of Latimer's 

Sermons 73 

Oxford 'Tracts 74 

The Sage of the Pollen 75 

The Freshet 79 

Hungary 83 

The Century Flower 86 

The Burial at Gettysburg 88 

The African Colour-Sergeant 91 

The Battle of the Dead Cid 93 

The Grass-Grown Rampart 98 

Giuseppe Mazzini 100 

1875 102 

CAROLS. 

Ring Out the Bells 109 

Softly the Night is Sleeping 11 1 

Joy to the World 113 

Christ Hath Arisen 115 

Wake To-Day, Ye Gladsome Voices 117 

Spanish Hymn 119 

6 



CONTENTS. 

TRANSLATIONS OF ANCIENT CHRISTIAN 
HYMNS. 

PAGE 

Children in Paradise St. Ephraim. 123 

Lucis Largitor Splendide Hilary. 125 

Beata Nobis Gaudia Hilary 127 

Aurora Lucis Rutilat Ambrose. 129 

Sterna Christi Munera " 130 

O GLi'^s Beata Ccelitum ! Aitgnstin. 132 

Quid, Tyranne ! Quid Minaris... " 135 

Jam Mcesta Quiesce Querela.. .Prz/^<?;z//z/^. 137 

De Cruce Christi Fortimatiis. 139 

NuNTiUM VoBis Fero de Supernis . G^/v^*?;'/. 141 

Veni, Sancte Spiritus Robert of Frajice. 142 

Gravi me Terrore Pulsas . .Petrus Damiajii. 144 

Audi, Tellus, Audi Anonymous. 147 

Cur Mundus Mii.it at .Bernard of Clairvaux. 148 
Ad Cor Christi— Summi Regis Cor, Aveto. 

Bernard of Clairvaux. 1 52 

In Terris Adhuc Positam Abslard. 156 

Hymni Nocturni Abelard. 1 57 

MUNDI Renovatio Adam of St. Victor. 159 

O Esca Viatorum ! Thomas Aquinas. 160 

RecORDARE Sanct.E CruCIS . . .BonaveJitnra. 161 

Omnis Mundi Cry.at\]-ra.. .Alanus Jpisulanus. 164 

Vita Nostra Plena Bellis, " " 167 

All Angels Thomas a Kcinpis. 165 

Antiphona ad Nocturnos Anonymons. 171 

7 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

St. John Evangelist Anonynnons . 172 

Altitudo, Quid Hic Jaces ? " 175 

Parvum Quando Cerno Deum.. " 177 

Pone Luctum Magdalena ! " 179 

O ! Quanta, Qualia Sunt Illa Sabbata. 

Anonymous. 181 

Ave Rosa Spinis Puncta " 185 

In Natali Domini " 184 

Cum Me Tenent Fallacia Alard. 186 



8 



THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. 

THOUGHTFUL stands the gray-haired 
sculptor, 
Silent as the silent stone, 
From the chaos of the marble 

To the living Godhead grown ; 
But a gloom is on his forehead, 

Pales the fire within his glance, 
Till at last the brooding sorrow 
Breaks in sad, high utterance. 

Holy Art ! thy dreams of beauty 

Carved my cunning hand before ; 
Still above the earth-born image 

Bodiless my thoughts would soar ; 
Still the pure, unfound Ideal 

Would ensoul a fairer mould : 
In this faultless work I perish, 

And Thorwaldsen now is old ! 
9 



THOR WA LD SEN' S CHRIS T. 

Noble artist ! thine the yearning, 

Thine the great, creative word, 
By the wakeful mind forever 

In its nightly watches heard. 
For the earthly it is pleasure 

Only earthly end to gain ; 
For the seeker of the Perfect 

To-be satisfied is pain. 

Visions of the unseen glory 

Milton saw in his eclipse, 
Paradise to outward gazers 

Lost with no apocalypse : 
Holier Christs and veiled Madonnas 

Painted were on Raphael's soul ; 
Melodies he could not utter 

O'er Beethoven's ear would roll. 

Ever climbs the high Ideal 

Rosy peaked above our eyes ; 
Ever near the Happy Islands, 

Shoreless the horizon flies. 
Not the brimming cups of wisdom 

May the thirsty spirit slake. 
And the molten gold in pouring 

Will the mould in pieces break. 

ID 



THOR IV A LD SEN' S CHRIS T. 

Voice within our inmost being 

Calling deep to answering deep ! 
Smiting like the morning sunbeam 

On the leaden lids of sleep ! 
All our joy is in our Future, 

And our march our only rest : 
Still the True reveals the Truer, 

Still the Good foretells the Best. 

yamcary, 1850. 



THE LOST THOUGHT 

IN the soul's morning, when it stood wide 
open 
As heaven gate, whence airs breathed dewy 

laden 
From rosy buds, and fancies, half-fledged an- 
gels, 

Around it played ; 

Came there a Thought, still floating as the 

twilight. 
Folding its gracious wing around me, bearing 
The mind a happy captive in its fetters 
Of soaring joy. 

In that strange dream faded the world of 

shadows ; 
And as the seer, caught in unbodied vision, 
Heard I a music the heart's lips can never 
Whisper aloud. 

12 



THE LOST THOUGHT. 

What was my Thought ? alas ! I know no 

longer ; 
Only a trackless wonder, come, unstaying ; 
Only on memory's shifting sand a foot-print 
Washed by the wave. 

Only I beckon back a gliding spectre ; 
Only I hear in the still, windless night-time 
The eternal murmur of a billow, plashing 
On far-off shores. 

Return'st thou not, O Thought ! O long-lost 

treasure ! 
Thou Shalt return, when from this sleep-exist- 
ence 
We waken, when the sea of Memory 
Gives up its dead. 
January', 1849. 



13 



REQUIEM. 

LIGHTLY fall ; fall thou ah ! lightly 
Over the maiden, kind earth ! 
Never a burthen hath pressed 
On the white, joy-loving breast. 
Fresh with the dew of its birth. 

Vex not her sweet sprite with sighing ; 

Why for the happy one weep ? 
Staining with envious eyes 
The pillow of green, where she lies 

Smiling in innocent sleep. 

Bloom, ye first buds of the springtide, 

Over the new-scented bed ; 
Faery cups, wet from the snow, 
Violets, nestle ye low. 

Close to the slumbering head. 

There from his flowery chalice 
Sips still the wild honey-bee ; 
There the red oriole sings. 
Shaking the drops from his wings, 
Piping his matins of glee. 
14 



REQUIEM. 

There in soft dream of the morning 

Leans she with half open ear ; 
Ripples of sunshine she quaffs, 
Lists when the meadow-brook laughs, 
Creeping thro' cool mosses near. 

Blossom and song of the woodland, 

These were the faery child's breath ; 
She is a song ever staying, 
She a spring bud undecaying ; 

Thou canst not change her, O death ! 
September, 1847. 

15 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

'T^HE Old Year's hour is come. In silence 
-■- kneeling 

I drink its faint, low breath ; 
As the fond Roman caught the spirit stealing 

In the last kiss of death. 

O, sister ! latest born of our dear mother, 

Bud that half opened hung 
Fresh with the morning dews, forgive a brother, 

Whose love would keep thee young. 

I see thee woman, yet I strangely linger 

'Midst those green, roseate days, 
And fain would stay with a regretful finger 

The blooms that seem decays. 

Yet ah! we may not thwart with weak endeavour 

The happy law that binds 
With life's swift change the beauty ripened 
ever 

In flower or blossoming minds. 
i6 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

O, sister mine ! I cull from caskets olden 

Of weird, sweet histories, 
A tale, wherein as in a setting golden 

The pearl of wisdom lies. 

In the long twilight of the dreaming ages, 

Where childlike fancy strayed, 
A fount of youth — so was the lore of sages — 

In some lone earth-nook played. 

Whoe'er those faery waters should discover, 

Bathing wan face and limb, 
A lean, dry grey-beard, a sad limping lover, 

New life-blood danced in him. 

When the New World burst on old Europe's 
vision, 

A boundless dreamland rare, 
That fount of youth, that hidden well Elysian 

They deemed was bubbling there. 

To that sweet shore, whose flowery wilder- 
nesses 
Bloom in its gleeful name, 
Where summer stays the year with fond caresses, 
A band of pilgrims came. 
17 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

Alas ! in dank savannas, poison-laden, 

Full many a seeker lay ; 
From weary quest to many a woful maiden 

Came back a gallant grey. 



Yet, sister mine ! that legend was no dreaming ; 

Doubt not 'tis wisest sooth ! 
Though in no spot of earth, yet ever streaming 

Is that lost well of youth. 



Not in the infant smile, the brow unshaded, 

The play of dimpled cheek, 
But in a deeper life there dwells unfaded 

The childhood that we seek. 

The soul that wears a freshness all unwasting, 

The heart as warm and free 
As April buds, not earth's mad revels tasting 

To bring satiety. 

The life that garners, in a world of folly. 

The beautiful and pure, 

This, maiden best beloved ! the childhood holy, 

Whose spring-time shall endure. 
i8 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

In those baptismal waters Christ hath sprinkled, 

Forever bathe thy heart, 
And He shall keep thee spotless and unwrin- 
kled. 

As now a child thou art. 

Each thought of joy, each guileless recollection 

Shall linger ever near ; 
And golden cups of hope and bright affection 

Bloom by that fountain clear. 

Still come thy early days, young birds return- 
ing, 
Tho' wanderers from the nest. 
Still homeward look with instinct of glad yearn- 
ing 
Toward the motheV breast. 

O, sister! may the children's angels, waiting 

Before the Father's throne. 
Watch over thee, new, happier years creating, 

When the dear Past is flown. 

New Year's Eve, 

December 31,1 849 . 

19 



TWILIGHT ON THE RIVER. 

SEE soft-footed twilight creep 
Into the bosom of the stream : 
Breathless the broad shadows sleep ; 

Yonder oaks, in voiceless dream, 
Bend as with a fond amaze. 
While another self they see, 
Silvery leaf and branching tree. 
Nodding to their nodding gaze : 
Only o'er them broods the change 
Of a slumberous beauty strange. 

Silently the wondrous Past 
Over the shapes of faded life 

Doth his twilight shadows cast ; 
All its wind-tossed boughs of strife 

Clear reflected here again. 
Real as in days gone by, 
But in softened hues they lie ; 

Painless images of pain ; 

Steeped by that unearthly charm 

In a trance of holy calm. 
20 



TWILIGHT ON THE RIVER. 

O sweet world of memories ! 

Gleaming in the peaceful heart ; 
Passing time the shadow is, 

Thou our real being art ! 
Loves and joys, tho' seen no more, 

As the sea nymphs in their cave 

In still deeps beneath the wave 
Builded on the ocean floor. 
An unwrinkled, ageless race 
Have their silent dwelling-place. 

Parker River, Newburyport. 
October, 1850. 

21 



THE MINNOW. 

HAIL to thee, brave voyager ! 
Sea King of this stormless meer ; 
Pigmy, madcap water sprite, 
Shooting left and shooting right 
As an arrow of the sun ; 
Brimful of thy gushing fun ; 
Minnow gay, thou art to me 
A fresh thought, a laugh of glee. 
Sleepless, limber, frolic thing ! 
All thy life a gambolling. 
All thy rest an endless motion 
In thy small Pacific Ocean. 

Say, thou tiny fish, hast known 
Of a world beyond thine own ? 
Haply legend dim and hoar 
May have reached thine inland shore, 
Of the monster ships that sail 
Broad winged in the howling gale ; 

22 



TFIE MINNOW. 

Where the huge Leviathan, 
Kaiser of the tumbling main, 
Rides amidst his scaly court ; 
Where the merry sea gods sport ; 
And in trail of doomed bark 
Cruiseth keen the pirate shark. 

But, sweet minnow, what are these 
Save fond, silly fantasies ? 
Naught for thee hath breath or being, 
That transcends thy orb of seeing ; 
All the unknown and the far 
Uncreated nothings are : 
Naught to thee doth lie beyond 
The horizon of thy pond ; 
'Tis thy vast omovjxhn]^ 
Bounded by the dark world sea ; 
For no deeper lore thou carest. 
Backward, forward ever farest, 
Save perchance some hardy band 
Sail for rumoured new-found land, 
Or a thrice-adventurous Cook 
Circumnavigate the brook. 
Never danger, never din. 
Save when boy with crooked pin 
23 



THE MINNOW. 

Some young Izaak, all untried, 
Angles by the water side. 
Naught thou deem'st, unlearned elf, 
iBigger than thy simple self ; 
Thou the centre, thou the heart 
Of the circling system art ; 
Life for thee has riddles none ; 
All is daylight and broad sun ; 
Yesterday nor unborn morrow- 
Brings a care nor leaves a sorrow ; 
Haunted thou by no ideal ; 
Dwellest only in the real, 
All untinged with hope or fear ; 
Happiest in thy corner thou ! 
Thine Eternity is now, 
And thy universe is here. 

Laughing sage within the brook ! 
Better from thee than a book 
I the hints of wisdom gain ; 
Many a thought for larger brain, 
Many a truth within whose span 
Floats the minnow mind of man. 
That shall make thy silent stream 
More musical than Academe. 

February, 1 844. 

24 



THE CID AND THE LEPER. 

DAWN o'er castled hill-top glances ; 
Rides Rodrigo of Bivar, 
'Midst the gleam of twenty lances, 

Flashing as the morning star : 
To the shrine of Compostella 

Rides, our Lady's grace to gain ; 
Gentlest heart 'neath stoutest corslet, 
Soul of chivalry and Spain ! 

See ! a lothely leper lying 

Whelmed within the miry road : 
* Help, good Christian men, the dying ; 

Help me for the love of God ! ' 
Spur the knights with idle jeering. 

But Rodrigo stoopeth low ; 
And the hapless beggar nearing, 

Lifts him to his saddle bow. 

At the hostel board he seats him, 

Crowned with meats and amber wine ; 

And with kindliest welcome greets him ; 

* Taste, my brother, all is thine ! ' 
25 



THE CID AND THE LEPER. 

Chafing like an angry billow, 

From the hall each lordling fares ; 

But Rodrigo spreads the pillow, 
And the beggar's bed he shares. 

Sleep thou like a child, pure-hearted ! 

But in holy dead of night. 
Blew a piercing wind ; he started ! 

Lo ! he saw a form in white ! 
Lifts it o'er him hands caressing, 

Bends a face with winsome smile ; 

* Take thou saintly Lazarus' blessing ; 

I am he, yon leper vile. 

* When this wind blows on thy shoulder, 

Strike, for God shall wield thine arm ! 
Bold Tizona's blade, but bolder 

Edged by me with saintly charm. 
Thine, O Cid, the battle holy. 

Thine the Christian palm and song ; 
For the gentle heart and lowly 

Is the comrade of the strong ! ' 

Eebruary, 1854. 

26 



PYGMALION. 

ALL day the enamoured sea claspeth the shore 
With cestus of bright waves ; the frolic 

winds 
Toy with the half shut lilies, or they creep 
Thro' haunts of broken gloom, where m3^rtles 

drop 
Green twilight at hot noon, white altars gleam, 
The musk rose swings its censer, and the doves 
Coo to each other, till the drowsy sun 
Kisses the forehead of yon blushing hill. 
Then blooms the star of Love ; by silver beach 
Dances the chariot of the gracious queen, 
Swan yoked, with wreaths of merry, laughing 

maids, 
Flecks on the purple tide : and through the 

groves 
Jet fountains of high song, and winged feet 
Flash o'er the pansied floor. 

But far within, 

A forest nook there lies, beneath the brow 
27 



PYGMALION. 

Of great Olympus nestled. Noisier sound 

Scares not the slumbering woodland, than the. 

laugh 

Of Lycus, babbling o'er his pebbled bed 

To the lush grasses. There in sleepless grief 

Sits young Pygmalion, glory of the art 

That can ensoul the marble : by his side 

Chisel and ivory hammer, careless flung 

Amidst the ashes. Lit the flickering lamp 

The midnight of his face, as th' altar fire 

Glares on the bleeding victim, while the priest 

Uprears his gilded axe. But there above. 

From yonder pedestal one dazzling beam 

Clove as a faulchion thro' the scattered dark ; 

A marble grace, it stood as if a god 

Envious of eating age, that beauty stayed 

In its full opened flower. From fringed shores 

Looked the still lake of her deep eyes, and fell 

The spray of her light tresses ; rose the breast. 

As winds lift softly a round wave that sinks 

To happy sleep again. Upon her brow 

Sate Guilelessness, knowing no blush of shame, 

Covering with awful robe of the white thought 

That unclothed wonder, as the queen of love 

Crowned upon Ida, yet as Pallas girt 
28 



PYGMALION. 

With armour of an unveiled chastity. 
But voiceless as the stone Pygmalion lay ; 
And if a moment o'er his haggard cheek 
Stole a quick glance, anon it died away, 
Moaning along dry lips, and raged within 
The torrent of his grief, until it brake 
In a wild wail of speech. 

O empty close ! 
Sad outcome of my toils ! for in this soul 
A dream of beauty, an unearthly shape 
Fadeless has dwelt, and thro' the stainless 

years, 
Scorning all low-born love, winged by chaste 

hope, 
Mother of skill, still on the virgin stone 
Gladsome I wrought, for still by day and night 
From the rough block looked an immortal eye. 
And not in vain. Behold the perfect thought. 
Behold the unseen beauty, worshipped long 
In my heart's holy caves. But Art, alas ! 
What see I, clasp I in these arms but stone ? 
Not life, not love, but only cold, dull stone ; 
Nor smiles the eye, nor blushes the red wave 
Through the white veins, nor answer the dumb 

lips 

29 



P YGMALION. 

My burning prayer. O fool ! Pygmalion, fool ! 
Poor worshipper of marble, to forego 
All nearer joy, cheating thy youth with dreams, 
To sink an unblessed phantom at the last 
Into this stony tomb. Speak, cold, dear mouth ! 
Send from thy icy lids one beam ! In vain. 
Yet may the gods have pity. Hear, O queen, 
Smile on thy Cyprus, bend to my great wo ! 
By my pure hopes, my toils, my sinless love, 
Breathe on this stone, or let Pygmalion die. 
For this his triumph is his crown of grief, 
And death of life. 

He spake, and wildly now, 
With a last sigh, as when the gasping wind 
Pours his full voice and falls, he clasped again 
That lifeless form, when lo ! he started back 
Shivering with fearful joy : for in his arms 
Thrilled the cold stone, and a warm throbbing 

pulse 
Shot through his own ; now heaved the virgin 

breast. 
And drooped the head as in a new-born dread 
Within the trembling hands ; the crimson 

stream 
Darted at one quick bound from the pale brow 
30 



P YGMALION. 

To the blue veinlets of the tiny feet, 
As in the north upleaps the wizard light 
In flashing arrows, then a climbing flame 
Bathes in one swelling flood the joyless skies. 
Dumb stood Pygmalion there, dumb marble 

now 
Before the living stone ; a fresh-made shame 
Bloomed on his forehead, and those eager eyes, 
Feasting so late on a chill pleasure, dared 
Snatch only stealthy looks, then turned away 
Hiding themselves in depths of his great bliss. 
And through the night rippled a brook-like 

voice : 
" Take thou, O worshipper, thy guerdon true ; 
To him who loves chaste Beauty, do the gods 
Grant Beauty, Love and Life." The whisper 

ebbed. 
And as a sunbeam from the pillar sank 
That living marble into living arms. 

O sculptor of sweet Cyprus ! fadeless type 
Of the creative soul, thy legend strange 
Whispers to-day as the Dodona leaves 
Loosed by a wind divine from speaking boughs. 
For our fresh budding youth is still a dream 
31 



PYGMALION. 

Of the unseen, unearthly Good we carve 
In the white marble of our thought ; but now 
Faultless it stands before our longing eyes, 
We clasp it, and alas ! 'tis cold, hard stone. 
O riddle of all earnest souls ! O life 
Seeking the True, the Good, the Beautiful, 
And finding only falsehood, wanton love, 
And mocking hope : so cometh weariness 
Of the first visions, till the sickened heart 
Sinks in despair, or plunges with the herd 
Into the pools of earth. This is the curse 
Of time ; a restless, tossing wave 
Whereon we sail, as the tired seaman sees 
A sunny glint far o'er the purple waste, 
A phantom shore, and straight his fancy builds 
The long-sought wonder of the Happy Isles, 
Already smells the musky gums and treads 
O'er the enamelled mead, but nearer now 
The golden bank melts in a cruel cloud. 
Above the endless heaven, and all around 
The endless sea. 

Yet dream thou on, brave heart ! 
Thy dream is truth. Let the low-thoughted 

world 
Call these but idle phantoms. Hath the spring 
32 



PYGMALION. 

For naught her dreams ? within her rathe, 

pale bud 
There lies the golden summer. Tho' the child 
Become the man, tho' the young callow brood 
Of fancy change, yet never the pure mind 
Loses its holy vision. Give me, then, 
Thy soul, O sculptor, thine unfainting will ! 
O deathless youth, with all thy heaven of stars, 
Unquenched, thro' the deep shaft of memory 

seen 
At noonday ; all thy rainbow hues of hope 
Arching the fresh, green earth : ye glens, and 

flowers. 
And song of the first bluebirds, prattling sweet 
The child's own thought, to me, to me return ! 
Make me again a glad, immortal child ! 
Breathe still the early faith, and 'neath the ice 
Of doubt or care let the warm hidden springs 
Keep summer at the heart : give me again 
The dreams from out the ivory gate, again 
The happy, holy dreams, that are not sleep, 
But life's true waking. The Eternal Good 
Waits on the pure : and still the vision pure 
The high mind shapes shall to full beauty 

grow, 
And the white marble to a living soul. 
33 



LEAVES. 

AMIDST the wild, bare mountains, 
Groweth the sacred tree. 
Upon whose leaves are written 
The words of mystery. 

From topmost twig are hanging 
The broad, green tongues divine ; 

On the young shoot thou spellest 
The faintly graven line. 

I bring the mystic leaflets, 

In dewy freshness now, 
Close by love's hallowed temple, 

Plucked from the wondrous bough. 

Each hath the magic letters. 

And meaning manifold 
From the soft, trembling touches 

To the last writing bold. 

O priestess ! thoughtful priestess ! 

Ask thou of Buddha wise. 

Of past, to come, and present. 

What truth within them lies. 
October, 1852. 

34 



THE VISION OF YOUTH. 

VISION of strange beauty, hovering o'er 
The charmed eyes of the soul, whom I 
adore 
With fixed and passionate gazing evermore. 

Thou floatest still across my floating dream, 
As o'er the wind-tossed grain a waving gleam 
Doth now a shadow, now a sunshine seem. 

From childhood's dawn, a wondrous presence 

thou 
Camest unsought, unknown, in manhood now 
I gaze on the same form, the holy brow. 

Fair art thou, clearly seen as earthly face. 
Yet an embodied light, a lustrous grace. 
Whose features I behold, but can not trace. 

I look upon thee in a silent trance ; 
And on the river of my spirit dance 
The golden ripples of thy smiling glance. 
35 



THE VISION OF YOUTH. 

Thou seem'st as one, within whose image 

dwell 
Dear, life-long memories, I know full well ; 
Yet can I not unfold thy magic spell. 

Sometime, a lone Chaldean, from afar 

I watch thee on thy throne, a distant star ; 

Then thy near rays within me gliding are. 

In joy's full noontide, at the happy hour. 
When the whole heart lies open to love's 

power, 
As lies beneath the sun the open flower, 

Then comest thou ! and my glad soul in quest 
Of thy fresh dawning goes ; upon thy breast 
Lean I mine own, and feel that I am blest. 

In the dark season of my mournful mood. 
When sweeps with grisly wings a spectre brood, 
Making a midnight of my solitude ; 

Then comest thou ! I see in thy soft eyes 
A glistening tear, and in thy stealing sighs 
A whispered voice of consolation lies. 



THE VISION OF YOUTH. 

As drops upon the grass the soothing rain, 
Its still, sweet music, so upon my pain 
Drops thy dear presence, and I breathe again. 

Art thou of earth or heaven ? O love divine. 
Only I kneel in faith before thy shrine, 
Only I know in soul that thou art mine. 

Yet ever and anon I hear a tone : — 
" O restless heart ! thou shalt not be alone. 
But thy youth's vision soon shall be thine 
own." 
January^ 184 1. 



THE AURORA. 

REMEMBEREST thou, sweet love, that 
dream of wonder 
We saw, lone watching on the starlit ocean, 
A Northern morning walking on the bosom 
Of the soft eventide ? 

Low hung the moon, her bashful brow yet 
fairer 

Thro' thin, transfigured cloud ; a silver}^ shore- 
line, 

Strange towers 'mid groves of palm, and 
vapoury hill-tops; 

Sate on the desert sea. 

Now shot from silent deeps a weird light, play- 
ing 
As smile o'er parted lips, with winsome dim- 
pling 
Round the warm cheek, then madly leaped 
and kindled 

The high, o'erarching blue. 
38 



THE AURORA. 

Then throbbed that mighty breast with arrowy 
pulses, 

Bathed the pale forehead in its flood of crim- 
son, 

And thro' its blushes glowed the Virgin 
Pleiads, 

As eyes of dancing glee. 

Mingled were sea and heaven, a twin ocean ; 
Above, the surging, billowy light ; below it, 
A wave of flame, rushing and melting ever 
Into one fond embrace. 

O ! happy vision, gleaming still upon me ! 

The image of my love, in thought's pale night- 
time 

Struggling to life, in faint and quivering 
flashes 

From the heart's hidden deeps. 

Then brake its rosy fulness o'er my heaven. 
And thro' the cloud the holy stars looked 

smiling, 
And met our kindred souls, a mingling tor- 
rent 

Of light and billowy joy. 
39 



THE AURORA. 

O ! morn new risen on night ! and shalt thou 

vanish 
From our young life ? only as that dear vision, 
Shall passion's flush die in the fuller noontide 
Of Love's undying peace. 
N 071 ember, 1S51. 

40 



LOVE THOU. 

THE heart's answer TO " LOVE NOT.' 

LOVE thou ! love thou ! for born to love 
thou art : 
Its mystic ties entwine this life of ours ; 
And opens to its smiles the yearning heart, 
As bends towards the light the darkened 
flowers. 

Love thou ! love thou ! tho' in the mournful 
tomb 

The frail, decaying forms of joy may lie ; 
Yet love eternal is ; the nobler bloom 

Of its fresh spring-time wakens not to die. 

Love thou ! love thou ! tho' poured the lavish 
tide 
O'er barren sands, thro' doubt, thro' false- 
hood cling : 
Sad, sad the spirit in its fountain dried, 
But holier, purer grows from suffering. 
41 



LOVE THOU. 

Love thou ! love thou ! O voices sweet that 
roll, 

An angel music trembling on the breeze' 
From distant shores, ye whisper to the soul, 

Its perfect peace, its endless melodies. 

November, 185 1. 

42 



SILENT LOVE. 

TELL me, what yon bright bird dreameth 
As he sits, with folded wing, 
And forgets awhile to sing ? 
Blessed mood of joy ! meseemeth, 
Wooed by him sweet Silence is 
To unfold her harmonies. 

Know you, what the fond flower telleth 

To the dew-drop on her breast ? 

She that in her nook of rest 
Ever meek and quiet dwelleth : 

Ah ! her loving smiles express 

All her silent happiness. 

Know you, what the low wind sigheth 

To the waters of the rill ? 

Hark ! in murmurs soft and still 
Now the virgin stream replieth. 

These shall teach me, dear, to woo : 

Silence is my song to you. 

November^ 185 1. 

43 



THE AIR-PLANT. 

THERE grows a plant in the sunny dell, 
Hanging with earthless roots and bare, 
And drinks, a gay, bright miracle. 
Its nectared life from out the air. 

My heart a happy air-plant is, 

And on love's balmy breath it feeds ; 

Nor coarser soil, nor sweeter bliss 
Its pure, unearthly being needs. 

Thy wordless thoughts, thy soft, dear sighs, 
Thy smiles, distilled in silent showers, 

Quaffing in thirsty joy it lies, 

And spreads its rich, fantastic flowers. 

December, 185 1. 

44 



SONG. 

"love is blind." 

WHO speaks that slander old, 
" Love's eyes are dim " ? — 
A purblind babbler he ! 

Love laughs at him. 
Keener than Jove's own bird, 

Who heavenward flies, 
Mocking the shafts of noon, 
Are Love's bright eyes. 

He sees the soul beneath 

The shews of pride ; 
Nor robe, nor jewelled wreath 

The churl can hide : 
He counts gay fashion's face 

But painted dust ; 
He scorches with a glance 

The leer of lust. 

He scorns the huckster base 
Who e'er has sold 

45 



SONG. 

Fair woman's virgin grace 

For earthly gold : 
He dowries him with hate, 

The marriage ring 
He makes a molten death 

To burn and cling. 

He seeth beauty pure, 

That lowly grows, 
As o'er the cottage porch 

The briar rose : 
He sees the throbbing hopes, 

Stirring the breast, 
As new-born birds that chirp 

In one soft nest. 

More than the cold, shrewd brain, 

Shrivelled in youth. 
He chooseth childhood's mind 

And heart of truth ; 
More than the monarch's gem, 

To him are dear 
The blush of one fond cheek, 

One pearly tear. 
46 



SO.VG. 

Who speaks that slander old, 

" Love's eyes are dim " ? 
A purblind babbler he ! 

Love laughs at him. 

yufy, 1852. 

47 



THE TRYSTING-TREE. 

MERRY is the woodland smile 
With kiss of balmy May ; 
With jocund breeze, and jocund bird 

On every dancing spray : 
But sweeter far thy pleasant song 

Than all the wild birds' glee, 
And greener are thy budding joys, 
Thou happy trysting-tree ! 

We stood upon the lonely deck ; 

Above the starry deep. 
Around the calm, blue ocean lay 

Rocked in a dreamy sleep : 
The low winds murmured thro' the sail, 

The mast hung o'er the sea : 
And there beneath its shadows dark 

We had our trysting-tree. 

The low winds sang, the waters sighed ; 

One voice alone I heard, 

A music softer to my ear. 

Of one, half-whispered word : 
48 



THE TRYSTING-TREE. 

I pressed to mine thy throbbing heart, 

I felt it beat with me ; 
I knew thy love, O maiden dear, 

Beneath the trysting-tree. 

Ah ! blessed tree ! thou bloomest gay 

With summer beauty now ; 
With fullest leaf, and golden fruit 

Upon the naked bough ; 
And from the holy shade there steals 

A soul-like melody. 
As still we stand in joy beneath 

The dear loved trysting-tree. 
November, 1 85 1. 

49 



THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. 

C 'GUARDIAN Powers, that ever dwell 
^ Watchful of this sacred well, 
Whose bright waters give again 
Health to sickly heart and brain, 
Hear a hapless maiden's grief ; 
Grant, O grant, a swift relief, 
With your potent spells restore 
My true love to me once more. 

Once he was the gravest sage ; 
Ever from his earliest age 
Might his visage be mistaken 
For a Leibnitz or a Bacon ; 
Learning dwelt within his looks, 
Deep as his old parchment books ; 
And his trivial conversation 
Was a long and large oration ; 
Never from his mouth would fall 
Sentiment and poor romance ; 
And for love, he scorned it all ; 
Only studied us, weak creatures, 
As gay butterflies or plants, 
In our scientific features. 
50 



THE MAIDEN'S ERA YEE. 

But a change has o'er him passed 
Since the eve of Friday last : 
All day long entranced he walks ; 
In his sleep most strangely talks ; 
Now he laughs, and now he sings ; 
Chatters the absurdest things ; 
Reads no books, but spends his time 
Weaving namby-pamby rhyme ; 
Writes a sentimental sonnet 
To my shoe-string or my bonnet ; 
Sits and gazes in my eyes. 
Now he smiles, and then he sighs ; 
Kisses me till ne'er a skin 
Lingers on my features thin : 
Now, perhaps, — the jealous fool ! — he 
Asks me if I love him truly ; 
Like a thunder-cloud he'll mutter, 
Call me false, deceiving, heartless. 
If to others I should utter 
Word or smile with freedom artless ; 
Then as suddenly he's joll)^. 
As this moment melancholy ; 
Calls me darling, rosebud, lily, 
And a hundred names as silly ; 
Says the same fond things forever, 
Tedious as he once was clever ; 
51 



THE MAIDEN'S PRA YER. 

In the coldest winter weather 
Drags me with him hours together, 
Gazing at the moon perhaps, 
With most crazy rhapsodies, 
While I yawn for loss of naps, 
Or in speechless torment freeze. 
Vain my crying or complaining ; 
I've no patience now remaining ; 
Every day he seems the more 
Wild and frantic than before. 

Well-a-day ! what damsel e'er 

Had a harder grief to bear? 

Tell me, gracious spirits, tell. 

Is his case incurable ? 

Must I give him up ? Alack ! 

He might prove a maniac. 

And he's dearest to his Fanny, 

Even tho' a "wee uncanny." 

Should I wed him ? marriage might 

Set his addled senses right, 

And a plain domestic diet 

Make him rational and quiet. 

Grant, O healing spirits, grant 

Pity to your suppliant ; 

With your cooling waves recover 

My forlorn and foolish lover. 

November, 185 1. 52 



SONG. 

FLY, winged dreams ! 
Hover, where the lonely maiden 
On her couch of sorrow lies, 
With your sweet love-philters laden, 

Softly charm her sleepless eyes : 
From the earth of heavy care. 

Lifted on your purple wings, 
To the world of beauty bear. 
Of bright imaginings ! 

Fly, winged dreams ! 
Where the unseen morrow dances 

Far upon the shadowy hills ; 
Breath of flowers and silvery glances 

Waft to her from distant rills ; 
Flash upon her unveiled sight 

Visions dimmed too long with tears, 
Glimpses of the cloudless light, 
Bliss of coming years ! 
53 



SONG. 

Fly, winged dreams ! 
Drop into her heart, as falleth 

The dew-drop in the sleeping rose : 
Whisper, as the spring-time calleth 

To the daisy 'neath the snows ; 
Bathe her in fresh waves of hope 

From the touch of cankering pain ; 
Then her smiling eyelids ope 
To glad life again. 
Fly, winged dreams ! 

Aprii, 1852. 



54 



THE PORTRAIT. 

^'Ays ^GDypaq)ODv apiare. — Anacreon. 

COME, best painter, draw, I pray thee, 
Her I love, with lifesome art ; 
I will give thee her sweet image 
Pictured on my steadfast heart : 

Paint a brow as sun-bright morning 

Lights the pink of Alpine snow : 
Paint a cheek as fresh-blown rosebud 

With a blushing heart below ; 
Paint a mouth, within whose dimples 

Mirth and Love together play. 
As the bees 'mid honeysuckles. 

Singing thro' the gladsome day. 

Next her eyes ;— thy soul, O painter, 
Into the cunning pencil send : 

Eyes where every changeful feeling 
In a sweet confusion blend ; 

55 



THE PORT R.il r. 

Let them twinkle now as starlight ; 

Then as still, as clear, as deep, 
As upon soft Como's bosom 

Twilight shadows love to sleep. 

Next, but why ? I see thy pencil 

From the listless fingers fall ! 
Yes, 'tis true ! no face, no feature 

Have I given thee, friend, at all : 
Only the fair, inward image ; 

But, good artist, this is she ; 
Even this embodied beauty. 

Thought and Joy and Purity. 

Ah ! the wizard Love, dear painter. 

His is skill outrunning thine ; 
He the fairest earthly likeness 

Changes into soul divine. 
Put away thy needless pencil, 

I have learned more lifesome art ; 
Let me keep the picture gleaming 

On the canvas of the heart. 
July, 1852. 

56 



THE BANIAN. 

COME dream awhile v/ith me, sweet maid, 
Under this giant banian's shade ; 

Look how its stately branches bend. 
Loving, childlike arms that cling. 
The mother trunk engarlanding. 

Springing, clasping without end. 

And in a pillared temple blend, 

A grey, cloistered solitude. 
Barred from eye of envious day. 
Save some tattling sunbeam stray 
Through the leafy lattice peep ; 

Ever pale green twilights brood. 
Low winds whisper in their sleep ; 

And we, hermits of the wood. 
With the still birds have our nest, 
Folding our wings in voiceless rest. 

So, fond heart, our life shall be 
This o'er-archmg banian tree ; 
57 



THE BANIAN. 

Every thought, each holy tie, 
Dropping its lithe, quick root below, 
Upward a new-born arm shall grow. 
Until its branching infancy 
Blossoms to a sacred grove, 
A Dodona of green love, 
Where the heart, a priestess, dwells. 
And every leaf sings oracles. 

There, within our cool retreat, 
In life's noontide, dear, we'll lie, 

Listening to the busy feet 
Of the mad world hurrying by : 

Thought profane, nor carking care 
Ever vex that charmed air. 

Then, as the long twilight holy 
Of our old age creepeth slowly. 

We the soul of former years 
Into our magic ring will call ; 
Blessed memories, one and all ; 

Loves that grew, baptised in tears, 
Heart buds wet with healing dews ; 
Pleasures, that as sunset hues 
Thro' the kindling branches cast 
Bars of gold along the past : 
5^ 



THE banian: 

Griefs, that bound our souls in one 
More than all delights have done ; 
Till our common life shall seem 
Fairer than a poet's dream ; 
And as this banian, ever spring 
In fresh, green boughs o'ershadowing. 
July, iZc^i. 

59 



VOICES OF THE SEA. 

'"pHOU ever-sounding sea ! 

A What say thy billowy voices 
To the young heart, that in its strength re 

joices 
Of faith and hope ? We leap with footsteps 

free, 
Singing unchecked, exultingly 
By rock-girt cape, or isles 
Where deathless summer smiles, 
From shore to passing shore. 
Evermore — evermore. 

O mighty, tossing breast ! / 

What to the sad soul weary 

Utters thy voice ? We roam a desert dreary, 

Champing th' eternal chain, nor may we rest 

Bv golden islands of the Blest, 

But round the icy pole 

Again our waters roll. 

With loud, coniplaining roar. 

Evermore — evermore. 
60 



VOICES OF THE SEA. 

What say'st, great Ocean, now, 

When after long years lonely 

The yearning soul finds rest? the storm-winds 

only 
Can vex the changeful face ; but far below 
Pure and untroubled waters flow ; 
As God's heart calm and deep, 
Lieth mine heart asleep ; 
His peace soft broodeth o'er, 
Evermore — evermore. 

Ah ! many-voiced main ! 

Thy mirth or moaning madness 

Are but the spirit's own ; in grief and gladness 

She hears her music floating back again ; 

The hills, the varied woodland strain, 

The heaven gay or pale. 

The winds that laugh or wail, 

The same heart's echo pour 

Evermore — evermore. 
November, 185 1. 



61 



THE DESERTED CONVENT. 

THE stately cliff hangs gazing o'er the wave , 
The wave sings sadly to the pebbled 
shore, 
A sleepless ghost, who wanders by the grave, 
Low moaning for the years that bloom no 
more. 

A gaunt, grey ruin bend the convent walls ; 

The giant cactus clasps the tottering stone ; 
With a wan smile the setting sunbeam falls 

Across the moss-grown walk and cloister 
lone. 

No more are heard, as in the bygone days, 
The ringing lauds, the aves of sweet prayer ; 

But fitfully the gust of autumn plays, 

And the shrill sea-bird smites the startled 
air. 

No more, awaked with chime of gladsome 

morn 

The white -robed priest before the altar 

kneels ; 

62 



THE DESERTED CONVENT. 

Nor vesper-bell, on quivering breezes borne, 
As a soft blessing o'er the ocean steals. 

Yet here, amidst these waste, unpeopled cells 
Linger unseen pale Thought, and holy Dread ; 

Still in her faded home Devotion dwells. 
To lift a prayer for the forgotten dead. 

Nor let harsh bigotry with angry eyes 

This mouldering tomb of buried years in- 
vade ; 
Or the meek heart of piety despise. 

That whilome bloomed beneath the convent 
shade. 

Dim was the sun that thro' the cloister stole, 
The glimmering twilight of a truth divine ; 

Yet burned unquenched the taper of the soul, 
A flame of love that lit the inner shrine. 

Here foreheads, pale with midnight vigil long. 
Bent o'er the scroll with Austin's wisdom 
stored ; 
And here the incense of sweet Ambrose' song 
Was evermore from golden censers poured. 
63 



THE DESERTED CONVENT. 

Here rested hearts, once crushed with heavy 
3^ears, 
Who chose the palm of toil for earthly ease ; 
These walls were washed with balm of healing 
tears, 
And worn the stony floor with bleeding 
knees. 

Nor scorn, ye madly daring ones who climb 
Upward to ice-clad, dizzy peaks of fame, 

These lowly souls, tho' no far-soaring rhyme 
Utter with trumpet peal their hidden name. 

Not theirs the glistering gems that monarchs 
wear, 
The blood-flecked laurel, withering with the 
strife ; 
Enough for them the daily cross to bear 
Along the rugged Golgotha of life. 

Not theirs the pride that decked the lowly man 
In robes of purple, and a mocking crown ; 

That hurled the thunders of the Vatican, 
And blasted Caesars with one deadly frown. 

Sweeter the song of yonder tinkling brook, 

Than shouts the torrent in his headlong 

path ; 

64 



THE DESERTED CONVENT. 

Happier the daisy in her woodland nook, 
Than giant oak, scarred by the lightning's 
wrath. 

Call not their little lot a sluggish dream. 
If from the well-head in the sheltered glen. 

Its bounty stole in many a winding stream 
To bless green dales, and cottages of men. 

Ah ! well Religion loves the cloister sweet, 
And while she fares along the dusty way, 

Seeks oft the mountain-top with noiseless feet. 
Where with the Master she alone may pray. 

Then let the heart of reverence steal around 
Each spot where'er a saintly soul has trod ; 

Be mine to kneel upon the hallowed ground, 
And lay fresh roses on the mouldering sod. 
Macao, 1852. 



65 



EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET. 

\ T morning twilight, when the dreaming soul 
^ *- Gropes in the grey of dim and weird-like 

thought, 
A sweet voice whispered : " Lo ! the Christ 

hath risen. 
And walks among the Olives." In glad haste, 
Still through still city, and adown the street 
Of Sorrows, crept I to the gate, whose stones 
Yet weep with Stephen's blood. The bearded 

guard 
Upturned a half-shut eye ; near broken tomb 
Shivering, a Jewish leper slept. All slept ; 
Only the wind moaned thro' the hollow gorge, 
As of a prophet wailing in his grave. 
And the leaf quivered on the gnarled bough. 
Ghostlike beside dry Kedron. Up I clomb. 
And with me clomb the mists, white-winged, 

swift ; 
Till, gazing from the brow, lo ! a wild sea, 
They surged above the rock, above the wall 

Of the lost city ; tomb and topmost tree, 
66 



EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET. 

Sank sudden, hoary mosque and battlement ; 
And, as the sailor in the stormy trough 
Sees earth nor heaven, but crested ocean peaks, 
Swooping upon him, so stood I alone 
With the drear hilltop and the swallowing mist. 
When lo ! this music sang : "A little while, 
And ye shall see me"; then the shaping cloud 
Seemed struggling to a smile, a deep, soft eye, 
And brow thorn-crowned, and from each thorny 

edge 
Trickled a drop of light. " I am," it said, 
" One who left heaven, when the Christ arose, 
Wearing, so love I Him, the face He wore, 
And in his holy foot-prints aye I walk. 
Till that He come again ! Behold thou now 
His coming messenger." Thorough the wall 
Of cloud, a sword of fire, the sunbeam clove ; 
It smote the hilltop, the grey olives burned 
As the red bush of Moses, down the slopes 
Joyous it leaped, till calm it stayed and bathed 
In wondrous flood the lone Gethsemane. 
Before me, as the landscape of a dream. 
Rose up the gleaming mount, and thro' the 

gorge 
Out to the hollow waste the surly mist 
67 



EA S TER ON MO UNT OLI VE T. 

Fled, as a baffled monster of the sea 
Back to his caves. 

In dumb, deep joy 
I drank the vision, when, " Behold again ! " 
Heard I the bodiless voice. And lo ! no more 
The grey, old walls, storm riven, and barren 

hills, 
But in that mystic light a city of God, 
Unspeakable, e'en by his golden lips 
Who saw the Bride of Christ, and in his trance 
Fell words as flashes from the crystal gates, 
And sunlit ripples of the River of Life. 
But mine how dumb ! nor can I know or tell 
The image of my joy : — a melody 
Dim whispering to me now, as if I stood 
Upon a lonely shore, and heard afar 
Snatches of song still billowing on the breeze 
Over a moonlit sea : — a towering pile. 
That crumbles at the touch of after-thought, 
As in the tropic sunset rise afar. 
Fair golden palaces 'midst groves of palm. 
Gleaming and gone : — arched court and pin- 
nacle 
Of a vast Temple, where yon Paynim mosque 
Spurns Sion, and a dome dashing its waves 
68 



EA S TER ON MO UN T OLI VE T. 

Of light o'er walls of light : about it walked 
Forms wonderful ; one with craggy brow 
Like Sinai, and a veil half lifted up ; 
A kingly harper chaunting as he went ; 
An eye from a dark mantle, gazing keen 
Into the cloud-rift as a written scroll ; 
A head, grief-whitened, but a crown it shone 
Of silvery rays ; gently she leaned on him, 
Who leaned on the Lord's bosom, and with 

these 
New, starry groups, as when the watcher sails 
Toward the Southern Cross, in clusters rich 
As love had blent their torches, and afar 
Three vapoury piles, that are the golden dust 
Of starry worlds. 

Then in my waking dream. 
Sang I this matin song. Shine, Easter Sun, 
Risen in thy strength ! O City of my God ! 
Long tombed in mists of sorrow, from the 

mount 
Where oft those eyes have wept, those blessed 

knees 
Have knelt, thy morning breaks. O holy hill, 
Beloved above all hills that climb to heaven, 
Tho' loftier peaks look snow-clad on the vales 



EA S TER ON MO UN T OLI VE T. 

And greener slopes smile joyous, holy thou 
With memories undying as His Love, 
Still walking here ; thou, Kedron, who no more 
Hearest the ripple of thy wave ; ye trees, 
Gnarled with grey age, bending your loving 

arms 
Over the garden, ye shall wear the bloom 
Of Easter morning on this mount of God. 
Jerusalem, 1S53. 



70 



A BUNCH OF FUCUS NATANS, GATH- 
ERED OFF THE AZORES. 

pOOR weed, that floatest by 
-■- A pilgrim o'er the desert of the wave ; 
A lingering bloom, by nature's withered grave 
Lifting thy smiling eye ! 

No gardens gave thee birth ; 
Nor knewest thou the happy, woodland bowers, 
Where sips the honey-bee, and sleep the flowers 

In the green nests of earth. 

Child of the ocean hoar ! 
Foam-born, thou drinkest at its mighty breast 
With all thy hanging roots, and without rest 

It rocks thee evermore. 

With the ship-wafting breeze 
Thou sail'st a mariner to Western isles. 
By Afric's sands or where the swart sun smiles 

On the gay Caribees. 
71 



A BUNCH OF FUCUS N A TANS. 

Poor weed ! thy presence tells 
The mystery of Life ; the murmuring tide 
Of Being, that thro' every channel wide 

Of shoreless Nature swells. 

In the mute sand it sleeps, 
The peopled water-drop, in winds that bear 
Germs to the lonely heath, in swarming air ; 

In the vast caverned deeps. 

Where joyous verdure curls 
Round coral grots, gleaming beneath the sea ; 
In fields of light, where budding nebulae 

Ripen to starry worlds. 

And what are we, slight thing ! 
But kindred weeds, upon the tossing stream 
Of human life, this vexed, half waking dream, 

Forever wandering ? 
November, 1 851. 

72 



WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF LATI- 
MER'S SERMONS. 

CHIEFTAINS of England's hero race ! whose 
life 
VV"restled for Christ, and in the burning flame 
Walked unconsumed ! Still have we kept 
your name ; 
But where the spirit that shall edge our strife ? 
Within our halls to-day your armour hangs, 
The rusted pride of the old battle-field, 
The empty helm, the sleeping spear and 
shield ; 
While ever and anon an echo clangs. 
As if your stalwart hands the war-note pealed, 

Then dies away, a hollow funeral wail. 
Dwarfs of a little day ! that heavy tnail. 
That sword of God our lean arms cannot wield, 
Only we view, awe-struck, the statue vast. 
And giant thews of a forgotten Past. 
January, 1850. 

73 



OXFORD TRACTS. 

MEDIEVAL sexton, thou 
Who would'st in decent grave-clothes 
dress 
The modern century, that now 
Exults in savage nakedness : 

Whether to choose, perplexing case ! 

The sans-culotte who shameless stands ; 
Or mummy, with his yellow face, 

Wrapt in a hundred swathing bands ? 

Thou fool ! who thinkest truth is cant, 

And piety is gown and stole ; 
What the irreverent times most want, 

Is not a surplice, but a soul. 
o. I 

74 



THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 

IN the fine pollen of a flower, that spread 
Its petals gay o'er a potato-bed, 
A wondrous insect had his dwelling. 
Unknown to barbarous men his fame, 
But world-embracing was his name, 
If we their glorious insect records grant, 
As the all-into-nothing crushing Kant, 
Spinoza, Fichte, Hegel, Schelling. 

^ons of animalcule ages. 
So say their great cosmogonies, chronologies, 
And paleo-entomologies. 
Had passed since out of Chaos and old night 
These mighty races sprang at first to light. 
High bards and heaven-illumined sages 
Had borne them onward till the earth 
Saw now its ripe, consummate birth 
In this divinest of the wise, 
This prophet of the grand To-be, 
In whom transcendent truth should rise, 
Full-orbed upon the animalculae. 
75 



THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 

His early infancy the wonder saw 

Hid in the acorn of his soul ; his babble 

Was Orphic wisdom, of idea, law, 

Of pollen-life, and primal flower-stalk ; 

Far from the empty rabble 

Of insect youths, his walk 
Amidst all philosophic thoughts sublime ; 
And now at last in wisdom's perfect prime, 

Pupils as Plato's bees, glad hung 

To sip the honey of his tongue. 

'^^ Listen" — he cried — '' O animalculse ! 
World-atoms of Infinity ! 
Listen, for I now rehearse 
The riddle of the universe. 
Caught by a few, unconscious seers, 
Dimly thro' the elder years. 
Ages long our God-born race 
Hath swarmed this wondrous dwelling-place, 
Yet have the}^ grovelled for a season, 
As if creatures of the dust. 
Not heirs of the Eternal Reason : 
Centuries of sloth and rust 
Despotic priest and dogmatist 
On childish Bible myth insist ; 



THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 

Nor science with its timorous oar 

Hath sailed beyond the narrow shore, 

Of mysteries ridiculous 

Still prating, occult truth extolling 
Above our reason ! mysteries to us ! 
The incarnate world-souls of the pollen ! • 

Away with faded faiths, away ! 

Upon us beams the perfect day. 

Hath not the insect vision trod 

Thro' all nature, spirit, God ? 

Hath not our science now unfurled 

All the mighty pollen world, 

Cycle with epicycle whirled ? 

Our keen Laplaces and Lagranges 

Mapped heaven in ' mecanique celeste ' 

Our gifted Darwins read the changes, 

Since our race killed off the rest ? 

Now waits the world a wisdom yet 

Beyond what all the sages wit. 

Listen ! I drop the riper fruit : 

The one religion absolute ! 
All things within the ever-shifting whole 
Are but the reflex of the Eternal Me ; 
The one, pervading animalcule soul ; 
All from that full,' unbottomed fountain roll. 
And back return as rivers to the sea. 
11 



THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 

Through each form the Protean God 

Passes from the primal fire ; 

Still from out the heavy clod, 

Thro' all subtle changes higher, 

In the flowering plant ascends, 

In the man he drops the ape, 

Till at last each grosser shape 

In its perfect Typus ends ; 
And lo ! revealed the Being true we find. 
The rational, self-conscious insect mind. 

We are the glorious world-flower ; we 

The essence of Divinity ; 

For us the blooming earth is given, 

For us the ever-circling heaven ; 

Onward through the ages vast 

The animalcule soul has passed ; 

Still pour its golden waves along 

Of art, philosophy, and song. 

Till reason gain its holy sway. 

All myths of folly fade away ; 
Then shall the coming, full-orbed aeon dawn 
Upon this pollen universe new-born. 
And each in ripe development shall be 
A true, incarnate, insect deity." 

January, 1 8 52. 

1^ 



THE FRESHET. 

TITET ! wet! wet! 
VV Chaos old hath come again, 

And the goodly world's upset ! 
Moist and dry, earth and sky 
Tumbled, jumbled all together : 
Who is clerk now of the weather ? 
Under whose heavy reign are we ? 
It is, sure, the demons' reign : 
Pluto, that jailor old, is napping, 
And the spirits every one 
Of shower and mist, of spite and fun 
Are up and out on a jolly lark : 
Hear them at the chimney, hark ! 
With their fists of fiendish rapping. 
Water ! water ! ghost of Pindar, 
Could'st thou from this dismal window 
See yon river's mighty piston 
O'er the streets its deluge fling, 
Nevermore thy lyre should sing 
That absurd ''vdcop apiffrovJ^ 
79 



THE FRESHET. 

Rain ! Rain ! 
Never was such a wondrous May. 
Venerable Mythos, say, 

Man of 1672, 
Twin-born of the Charter Oak, 
Tell us younger Hartford folk, 
Hast thou seen so moist a fact 
As this modern cataract ? 

'!Q 7T07101, ai Oily c» q)lv ! 
In what world, pray, are we thrown ? 
Call ye this the temperate zone. 

This incorrigible soaker ? 
No man, but a wet rag am I ! 
Body and soul have got the cramp ; 
Boots and coats and spirits damp ; 
All the starch o' the world is out ; 
Not a churchman, high and dry. 
Not remaining a dry joker : 
All that were so staunch and stout ; 
None are left, except the sellers 
Of Macintoshes and umbrellas. 

Rain ! Rain ! 

Never was such a flood before, 

Since that old sea captain Noah 

Built him a safety boat of gopher ! 
80 



THE FRESHET. 

Watchman, on the state-house vane ! 
Tell us, tell us what o' the night? 

•' I saw the great Connecticut, 
Swaggering like a tipsy loafer. 
Tumbling left, and tumbling right, 
Through the streets of Hartford town ; 
Storied house and Irish hut 
Bobbing up and bobbing down. 
I saw a porpoise smooth his head 
On Mrs. Jones' best feather-bed ! 
I saw a babe in a crib of wicker 
Floating along like infant Moses ; 
I saw old topers to their noses 
Steeped in a most unusual liquor : 
I saw a thousand salt-bags sink, 
Overcome with mighty drink : 
I saw the shad up Market Street 

Swimming each on his own hook ; 

I saw a grocer smiling look, 

As he watered his best old brandy-butt 

With the best old Connecticut ; 

I saw a boy on a chimney-top 

Angling over a fruiterer's shop ; 

I saw a parson take his seat, 

Riding all serene and high, 
8i 



THE FRESHET. 

On a barrel of dry discourses, 

The only things that can stay dry : 

Cats and dogs, and men and horses. 

Pots and kettles, neck and neck. 

Sinking, drinking, struggling, bubbling. 

Soaking, choking, splashing, smashing. 

All the world a floating wreck ! 

Woe is me ! I saw and sate 

On my lonely Ararat ; 

And I cried : the demons rain ! 

Chaos and night are come again." 

May, 1856. 

82 



HUNGARY. 

AWAKE, strong heart of an insulted earth ! 
Where sleeps thy manhood at this fearful 
hour? 
A hero nation, writhing at its birth. 

Strangled within the coils of brutal Power ! 
Ah ! shame ! unpitying Europe stands, 
With coldest glance and folded hands, 
While on the bloody field pale Hungary lies ; 
And see ! alas ! with sadly-lingering eyes, 
As fade their happy plains away, 
Afar her hunted chieftains stray. 
With broken swords and broken prayer, 
Asking of Moslem hearts in their despair 
The last, poor boon by Christian men denied, 
A home, a grave, their war-worn heads to hide. 

Not fallen, O noble land ! tho' now 
Trampled beneath a despot horde ; 

A conqueror in thy suffering thou ! 
A holier strife than of the sword ! 



HUNGAR Y. 

For thee the stars in their high courses fight : 

For thee the hills, the streams, whose ancient 
might 

Laughs at man's fetters as it seaward rolls ; 

For thee, the hopes, the aims of deathless souls. 
Rise, Freedom, from the living Past, 
With all thy sacred legions vast, 
From Alpine heights, from stormy coast 
Of the long ages, see ! they march. 

Hear ye the voice, ye crowned traitors, hear, 

And tremble, for it bodes your judgment-day ! 
That word, once breathed upon the atmosphere 
Of living men, shall never pass away. 
Whispered by some weak lip, now dumb, 
It echoes thro' the years to come ; 
Onward it rolls, yet louder, louder wakes 
The mighty music, till at last it breaks 

In volleying thunders ; wild and deep 
Tosses the surge o'er cliffs of wrong ; 
A startled nation in its sleep 
Listens and knows the stern, prophetic song. 
The tyrants' death-knell, the last trumpet peal; 
Lifts its glad head and shakes the avenging 
steel. 

84 



HUNGAR y. 

Joy, patriot chiefs ! for souls so great 

No idle tears to-day we shed ; 
Ye are no broken tools of Fate ; 
Rejoice, for Freedom is not dead ! 

A life eternal she within her bears ; 

Hers is no exile, but where'er she fares, 

All climes, all noble spirits are her home. 

And still, tho' far your toil-worn feet may roam, 
Walks Hungary with uplifted eyes, 
Still to your hero ears she sings 
The chaunt of her high destinies ; 

A glorious rest after long wanderings ; 

A nation yet to be ; tho' banished now. 

Wearing her crown upon her queenly brow. 



85 



THE CENTURY FLOWER. 

'''T^IS holy night I in slumber pale 

-■- The dreaminof soul of nature lies : 
Now lifts the flower its mystic veil, 

And flashes morning from its eyes. 
A hundred years of waning earth ! 

Of frost and sunbeam, blight and bloom ; 
And man, who saw its infant birth, 

A frailer flower, has sought the tomb. 

A hundred years ! what empires sped 

As eddies on the whirling tide ! 
Lands ruled beneath Napoleon's tread, 

And greater Goethe sang and died. 
Yet dumb, in shadowy stillness strange. 

Its fringed eyelids wait the hour ; 
Till ripening thro' each mighty change. 

It blooms. Time's rich, full-opened flower. 

A hundred years ! the soul of truth 
Has fettered lain in death-like rest, 
86 



THE CENTURY FLOWER. 

Yet lives a Thought, its budding youth 
Wrapt in some holy prophet's breast. 

It dawns ! the spell of ages breaks ; 
Stately it towers o'er barren men, 

A world of perfumed beauty wakes, 
Then drops its seed, to rise again. 

1848. 

A hundred years ! our fathers lie 

Calm sleeping on the field of toil ; 
We build, we drive the plowshare by, 

Heedless of aught beneath the soil. 
Silent thro' day, thro' lingering night 

Still grew the bud : — but see ! the morn ! 
See ! burst the glorious petals white, 

And Freedom's Century Flower is born. 

April, 1864. 

87 



THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 

A VOICE as of the ocean surge ! 
I see a mighty nation tread, 
With banners drooped and funeral dirge 

Within the city of the dead. 
On yonder slope but yesterday 

Clashed steel with steel, and breast with 
breast ; 
And tossed the battle's blood-red spray 
O'er hosts who now in silence rest. 

Kneel, mother land, in broken prayer, 

To kiss the dear, the holy ground ! 
See strong men weep like children there. 

Spelling in vain each nameless mound. 
And far, by Erie's waters deep. 

Or in the solemn woods of Maine, 
The gray sire dreams in troubled sleep 

Of one who comes not home again. 

Sword of the Lord ! — the bitter cry 

From many a bleeding wound shall start — 



THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 

Rest in thy scabbard, rest ! ah no ! 

False sons have stabbed a mother's heart. 
As breaks the thunders' gathered roar, 

I hear, I hear a people's cry 
From stormy cliff and sounding shore — 

No peace, no peace till Treason die. 

No ! by the sacred toils of all 

Who laid with no cement but truth 
The stones of our Cyclopean wall : 

No ! by the hopes of giant youth ! 
No ! by the red blood crime hath spilt : 

No ! by this heirdom of the free ! 
Bare the bright sword ; swear on the hilt, 

These years of wrong no more shall be. 

Chaunt ye not now the requiem sad : 

Lift ye the war-song, clear and high ! 
Sing, till it stir the sleepers glad, 

Who 'neath these crowded hillocks lie. 
Sing, mother land ! ye peaks that bloom 

With wreaths of the eternal snow ! 
Ye primal forests, in whose womb 

Navies of oak and iron grow ! 



THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 

Ye prairies, rich with nobler grains 

Of bearded men, of free-born sons ! 
And thou, great river, thro' whose veins 

The life-blood of our heroes runs ; 
More than the yellow Tiber's wave, 

Thy banks shall gleam with deathless fame ; 
Sing with thy torrents, of the brave. 

Who died to keep a nation's spotless name. 

Dece??iber, 1863. 



90 



THE AFRICAN COLOUR-SERGEANT. 

GLARES the volcano-breath ; 
Pours the red sea of death 
From Wagner's yawning hold, 
On the besiegers bold. 
Twice vain the wild attack, 

Inch by inch, stern and slow. 
Fights the torn remnant back, 
Face to the foe. 

Yet free the colours wave. 
Borne by yon Afric brave. 

Above the storm-blast higher ; 

But ah ! that flashing fire ! 
He sinks — the banner falls 

From the faint, mangled limb ; 
And droop to mocking walls 
The star folds dim ! 

Stay, stay the taunting laugh : 
See ! now he lifts the staff, 
91 



THE AFRICAN COLOUR-SERGEANT. 

Clenched in his close-shut teeth ; 
Crawls from red heaps beneath, 
Crowned with his starr}^ robe, 
Till he the ranks has found : — 
" Comrades ! the dear old flag 

^ Ne'er touched the ground." 

O deed, so pure, so grand, 
Sidney might clasp thy hand ! 
O brother ! black thy skin, 
But white the pearl within ! 
Man ! who to lift thy race, 

Worthy, thrice worthy art : 
Clasps thee in warm embrace 
A nation's heart. 
December^ 1863. 

92 



THE BATTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 

[From the " Cronica del Cid."] 

SILENT sleeps the tented city ; only rings 
the sentry's tread : 
Stand I long in frosty starlight, dreaming back 

the stately dead : 
And I cry with restless longing — Might to-day 

some elder ghost, 
From the cloudland of the heroes wake to lead 

the bannered host ! 
Then as clang of answering trumpet, thro' the 

hollow gorge of yore, 
Comes the legend of the battle, of the dead 

Campeador. 
Woe the day for thee, Valencia ! Close the 

Moorish pennons fly, 
As the white -caps of the billows, when the 

storm-wind dashes high : 
In his gilded mail, King Bucar 'mid his 

swarthy thousands lay. 
And he laughs, in dreams of triumph, at the 

breaking of the day. 
93 



THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 

But no sleep is in the city ; thro' the street 

stole faces white ; 
At St. Mary's half-lit altar, masses wailed that 

sable night : 
There were prayers upon the cross-hilt ; women 

knelt in moaning fear, 
For the Cid, the sword of battle, lay in silence 

on the bier. 
Then his parting word they whispered, " Tell 

ye none that I am dead. 
Place me upright in the saddle, wave the ban- 
ner o'er my head ; 
Ride ye forth, my brave Bermudez ; ride ye 

dauntless, for I wis 
I shall win my stoutest battle, God the mor- 
row, grants me this." 
In his ivory chair they found him : all in 

silence gazed and feared ; 
Shot his starry eyes, wide open, from above the 

snowy beard ; 
Firm his flesh and passing comely, by the 

Soldan's balsam kept ; 
And the hero smiled as when a victor on the 

bloody field he slept. 
Then in sendal green they robed him ; on the 

burnished cresses prest ; 
94 



THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CTD. 

Rich he shone in blazoned surcoat, and the 

red cross on his breast ; 
On his head a parchment helmet, cunning 

veined like gleaming steel : 
God ! a conqueror undying, rose my Cid from 

head to heel ! 
Joyous danced the ancient banner, joyous 

Bavieca neighed. 
And the darkling path was lighted by Tizona's 

flashing blade. 
Silent mount the knights around him ; through 

Valencia's gate they stream ; 
Silent where the white tents glisten, sweeping 

like a ghastly dream ; 
Silent as the frost of midnight falls upon the 

flowery brake : 
Hark the tambour ! hark the terror ! 'tis the 

Cid ! the Cid ! awake ! 
Vainly leaps the maddened Bucar : vain the 

awe-struck army flies : 
Thro' the morning mists as sunbeams, smite 

those stern, pursuing eyes ; 
And beside him, lo ! a chieftain on a snow- 
white charger came, 
In his hand a snow-white banner, and a sword 

of scorching flame. 
95 



THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 

Santiago ! Santiago ! lo ! the glorious day is 

won ! 
On the drifting wreck of battle bursts the red, 

exulting sun ! 
Gold and jewels, tents and corpses : — and afar 

King Bucar's pride, 
As a flock of screaming sea-gulls, dips below 

the ebbing tide ! 

Lift thy lids to-day, Mount Vernon ! where our 

Greatest rests no more ; 
But within his marble coffin, starts to hear the 

cannon's roar ; 
Dreams he of his broken country, dreams he 

in heroic pain : 
And methinks his voice is calling : — Raise my 

palsied bones again : 
Plant me upright in the saddle, bare the sword 

within my hand ; 
Let these ashes lead the battle, to redeem a 

noble land ! 
O ! my country ! God thro' trial bring the man 

as pure, as strong ! 

O ! blind giant, shorn and fettered by thy little 

masters long ! 

96 



THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 

Grinding still for greedy factions, groping dim 

thro' years of sleep ; 
Long enow the lazy currents in thy drowsy 

veinlets creep ; 
Long enow thine iron manhood eaten hangs 

by selfish rust ; 
Wake again that mighty spirit ! stand erect 

that hero dust ! 
For a hundred living pigmies not to-day shall 

victory v/in, 
As a hero's parchment helmet, with a hero's 

soul within ! 

March, 1864. 

97 



THE GRASS-GROWN RAMPART. 

STAND with me on this grassy mound ; 
A battle-field, a bloody grave ! 
To-day the nodding harvests wave 
Their mimic banners o'er the ground. 

See ! in yon trench, whose broken crest 
Sank 'neath the angry cannon wheel, 
A troop of conquering daisies steal, 

And on the very summit rest. 

And on this slope, where thickest fell 
The rain of death that stormy day, 
I see the laughing children play 

With fragments of a rusty shell. 

Long mused I there. Within my ear 
Rang thy sad voice, O gentle Lord ! 
" Not peace, I come to bring a sword ": 
But now I read their meaning clear. 

No Peace, till Thy cause conquereth ; 

No peace on earth, till Wrong and Right 
98 



THE GRA SS- GR WN RA MP A R T. 

Have wrestled in their mortal fight ; 
Then peace from war, then life from death ! 

Stand on the battle-field of thought ! 
A lurid waste, and through the strife 
Now truth, now error ; a great life 

Torn headlong, vanishing in naught. 

Vain sceptic ! never truth has died ; 
No Saviour who himself could save. 
Yet every victim from the grave 

Breaks like the Master glorified. 

Welcome the battle ! Earth-born lies 

Arm still their crowned and mitred powers. 
Let God take care of peace. Be ours 

The tears of blood, the sacrifice. 

Rest never ! Let mine heart repeat 

Thy cry, brave Arnauld ! " Have I not 
Eternity to rest in ?" What 

Repose like this, well-learned and sweet ? 

So God sends peace. New harvests bloom 
Out of our sweat, our pain, our toil, 
Flowers nestle in the furrowed soil, 

And children play on our green tomb. 
i86g. p9 



GUISEPPE MAZZINI. 



R 



EST, fiery heart, at length ! 
Roman of elder race, thy life-blood poured 
For the pure commonweal, thy dying strength 
Grasping the broken sword ! 

A gre3^-haired dreamer still 
In a changed world ; grave, proud and passion- 
ate, 
Steel eating out its scabbard ; Titan will 

Sternly defying fate. 

Yet in thy visions high, 
Like all great dreamers, hast thou kept the faith 
Of virgin youth in God, in liberty 

'Mid dungeon walls or death. 

While foreign gamesters played 
For thy fair Italy ; and priestly ban 
Palsied her sons, and a crowned phantom 
swayed 

The Christian Vatican, 

lOO 



GUI SEP PE MAZZINI, 

Thine the unfaltering voice 
Of Rome's last freeman. Let a conquering 

might 
Bribe all the gods to silence ; Cato's choice 
Be with the conquered Right ! 

Thy doom an exile sore, 
With Dante "climbing up another's stairs," 
Yet Rome thy Holy Land, Rome evermore 
The temple of thy prayers. 

Peace, weary heart ! not vain 
That dream of waiting manhood, withering 

years ; 
It comes, the fruit of all heroic pain, 
Of toil and bloody tears. 

Ah yes ! some happier day 
Shall a fond people bear thine ashes home, 
To hoard them in its urn, and proudly lay 
Within a new-born Rome, 

Where ! 'neath the Palatine 

Breaks the primeval city from its graves, 

And its immortals wake to hail the line 

Of sons no longer slaves ! 
March, 1872. 

lOI 



1875. 

TWELVE ! on the midnight silence ' 
Smites slow the drowsing bell, 
As if God's hand were tolling 
The dead world's funeral. 

I sate in my empty study 

And gazed in the flickering fire, 

As from the floor to the ceiling 
Climb the tall shadows higher. 

And as to the scared Eelshazzar, 

A phantom finger came, 
And traced on the wall before me 

Figures of cloudy flame. 

Methinks in the changing picture 

Faces I knew appear ; 
And each in the still procession 

Turns as he passes near. 

I see the Past sweep o'er me, 
As to the drowning man 
102 



i875- 

The whirling years are gathered 
Within a moment's span. 

Yes ! 'tis my youth's bright pla3^mates 
Who laughed in the sunrise rays ; 

Long, long ago they vanished 
At the parting of the ways. 

Now lo ! as the frost of night-time 
Shrivels the glancing dew, 

Change they to palsied grey-beards, 
A lean and ghastly crew ! 

See ! one in childhood singing 

A lark in upper sky, 
With chains of gold now fettered, 

A slave he totters by. 

Here one, a gay, bold athlete. 
Crawls on with gouty limb, 

And the coals of wasting passion 
Glare in those ashes dim. 

And there a dear loved maiden 
Creeps now a wrinkled crone, 

Thro' her painted mask is looking 
An eye of soulless stone. 
103 



i875. 

See one, whose skinny fingers 
Clutch at a laurel crown ; 

In bitter rage he grasps it 

But drop the handfuls brown. 

See ! there that fleshless spectre, 
Eyes from the sockets gone. 

Wears his bare skull a mitre 
And flaunts the Bishop's lawn. 

And from his tongue long palsied. 
As he drones his dreary prayer, 

A slimy snake creeps coiling 
About his thin, white hair 

What are ye, grisly phantoms, 
That o'er my memory stream ? 

Where is the thoughtful prophet 
To read my bodeful dream ? 

What are ye, grisly phantoms ? 

Then as the autumn blast 
An angry wail came shrieking, 

"Ghosts of the vanished Past.'* 

Then sank that fiery horror 

Within the ashes cold ; 
104 



i875. 

And lo ! on the soft, fair radiance 
New faces I behold. 

I see the pale-browed scholar, 

Who has worshipped God's own truth^ 
Brave souls, who had not bartered 

For gold their golden youth. 

I see the meek, true comrades, 
Who bore the scars of strife ; 

The pinching want, the sorrows, 
The thankless loads of life. 

Methinks, as in Giotto's pictures 
Those lights of evening play, 

As a halo of gold and crimson, 
Around their foreheads grey. 

Methinks in the magic firelight 
As the youths of old they trod, 

And there was walking with them 
One like a Son of God. 

And a soft voice murmured o'er me 

Like the Old Year's passing breath, 

"The unseen is eternal ; 

Its years can know no death." 
105 



CAROLS 



CHRISTMAS. 

RING out the bells for Christmas ! 
The happy, happy day ! 
In winter wild, the Holy Child 

Within the cradle lay ; 
Oh, wonderful ! the Saviour 

Is in a manger lone ; 
His palace is a stable, 

And Mary's arms His throne. 

On Bethlehem's quiet hillside. 

In ages long gone by, 
In angel notes the Glory floats, 

Glory to God on high ! 
Yet wakes the sun as joyous 

As when the Lord was born. 
And still He comes to greet you 

On every Christmas morn. 

Where'er His sweet lambs gather 

Within this gentle fold, 

The Saviour dear is waiting near, 

As in the days of old : 
109 



CHRISTMAS, 

In each young heart you see Him 

In every guileless face, 
You see the Holy Jesus, 

Who grew in truth and grace. 

In many a darksome cottage. 

In many a crowded street, 
In winter bleak, with shivering cheek 

The homeless child you meet ; 
Gaze on the pale, wan features. 

The feet with wandering sore. 
You see the souls He loveth, 

The Christ-child at the door. 

Then sing your gladsome carols. 

And hail the new-born sun ; 
For Christmas light is passing bright, 

It smiles on every one. 
Aud feast Christ's little children, 

His poor. His orphan call ; 
For He who chose the manger. 

He loveth one and all. 



1861. 



CHRISTMAS. 

SOFTLY the night is sleeping 
On Bethlehem's peaceful hill ; 
Silent the shepherds watching, 

The gentle flocks are still. 
But, hark ! the wondrous music 

Falls from the opening sky ; 
Valley and cliff re-echo, 

Glory to God on high ! 
Glory to God ! it rings again : 
Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 

Day in the East is breaking ; 

Day o'er the crimsoned earth ; 
Now the glad world is waking. 

Glad in the Saviour's birth ! 
See, where the clear star bendeth 

Above the manger blest ; 
See, where the infant Jesus 

Smiles upon Mary's breast. 
Glory to God ! we hear again : 
Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
Ill 



CHRISTMAS. 

Come with the gladsome shepherds, 

Quick hastening from the fold ; 
Come with the wise men pouring 

Incense and myrrh and gold : 
Come to Him, poor and lowly, 

Around the cradle throng ; 
Come with your hearts of sunshine, 

And sing the angels' song. 
Glory to God ! tell out again : 
Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 

Wave ye the wreaths unfading, 

The fir-tree and the pine, 
Green from the snows of winter. 

To deck the holy shrine ; 
Bring ye the happy children ! 

For this is Christmas morn ; 
Jesus, the sinless Infant, 

Jesus, the Lord, is born. 

Glory to God, to God again : 

Peace, peace on earth, good-will to men ! 

1861. 

112 



EASTER. 

JOY to the World ! fresh joy 
Dawns on its second birth ; 
And with the Risen Lord 
Rises again the earth ! 
All things Thy power obey, 
Victor divine o'er death ! 
All hail Thy holy day 
With living breath. 

Now heaven is passing fair ; 

Calmer the restless main ; 
More softly steals the air 

Over the smiling plain ; 
Each withered flower awakes 

From winter sleep to bloom, 
Each gladsome torrent breaks 

Its icy tom.b. 

Life conquers death ! Arise, 

O race of ransomed men ! 

113 



1869. 



EASTER. 

Your long-lost Paradise 
Opens in joy again ; 

See ! where the living Lord 
Stands at the happy door ; 

The cherubs' flaming sword 
Guards it no more. 



114 



EASTER. 

C^HRIST hath arisen ! 
^ Death is no more ! 
Lo the white-robed ones 

Sit by the door. 
Dawn, golden morning, 

Scatter the night ! 
Haste, ye disciples glad, 
First with the light. 

Break forth in singing, 

O world new-born ! 
Chaunt the great Easter-tide, 

Christ's holy morn. 
Chaunt Him, young sunbeams, 

Dancing in mirth ! 
Chaunt, all ye winds of God 

Coursing the Earth ! 

Chaunt Him, 3^e laughing flowers, 
Fresh from the sod ; 
115 



i86i. 



RASTER. 

Chaunt Him, wild leaping streams, 

Praising your God ! 
Break from thy v/inter, 

Sad heart, and sing ! 
Bud with thy blossoms fair ; 

Christ is thy spring. 

Come where the Lord hath lain, 

Past is the gloom : 
See the full eye of day 

Smile through the tomb. 
Hark ! angel voices 

Fall from the skies : . 
Christ hath arisen, 

Glad heart, arise ! 
ii6 



EASTER CAROL. 

WAKE to-day, ye gladsome voices ! 
Wake the song that angels sing ; 
Heaven is bright, and earth rejoices ; 
Christ is risen, the Lord and King ! 
Roll away the stone that bound Him ; 
Lift your heads, ye gates of gloom. 
See the shining ones around Him ; 
Morning floods the empty tomb. 

See ! He opes the heavenly city ; 

There the Lamb is all the light ; 
See the walls of gleaming jasper ; 

There is day that hath no night. 
There no sickness is nor dying. 

Fadeless flower the blissful years ; 
There no more of pain or crying, 

God shall wipe away the tears. 

From the throne a crystal river 

Doth through greenest meadows glide ; 
117 



EASTER CAROL. 

'Neath the tree of life forever 

Walks the Lord, His saints beside : 

Ended all their cares, their trials, 
Robes of spotless white they wear ; 

Ever from their golden vials 

Rise the odours sweet of prayer. 

Now before Him bend they lowly ; 

Now the song of love they pour, 
Saying, Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! 

Lord and Saviour evermore ! 
Ring ye out that hymn unending, 

Roll, ye angel tides, along ; 
Earth to-day with )^ou is blending 

In one wave of joyous song. 
1862. 

118 



SPANISH HYMN. 

[From the Hymnal of the " Iglesia de Jesus." Mexico.] 

WHY leavest Thou Thy sheep, 
Good shepherd ! 'mid this darkling 
vale forlorn, 
In loneliness to weep? 
And Thou thro' aether borne, 
Afar to the immortal rest art gone ? 

What can these rapt eyes see 
On which the beauty of Thy face has shone, 

That shall not joyless be ? 

Who Thy sweet voice has known, 
To him all else has deaf and tuneless grown. 

Upon these tossing seas 
Who shall the bridle lay ? whose hand beside 

Stay the mad, angry breeze ? 

If Thou Thy presence hide, 
What pilot else to the fair haven guide ? 
119 



SPANISH HYMN. 

Ah ! envious cloud, ah ! why 
Canst thou our short-lived joy so soon betray? 

Ah ! whither wilt thou fly ? 

What wealth thou bear'st away ; 
How blind, how poor, we who behind thee stay ! 



20 



ANCIENT CHRISTIAN HYMNS, 



CHILDREN IN PARADISE. 

PRAISE to Thee, O God our Father, 
From the mouths of babes shall flow 
Who in greenest fields of heaven 
As the spotless Lambkins grow. 

By the Spirit's voice aye guided 
'Neath the trees of life they feed : 

Gabriel, the angel shepherd, 
Doth the flock forever lead. 



High are they and passing lovely 
More than saints or virgin host : 

Children of our God the dearest, 
Nurslings of the Holy Ghost. 

Heavenly playmates, there they mingle 

Happy with the Sons of Light : 

Dwellers of the sinless city. 

Far from this sad world of night. 
123 



CHILDREN IN PAR'ADISE. 

At the blessed Easter's daybreak 
Newly clad they wake to mirth, 

Now for them their happy freedom 
Darkened by no stains of earth. 

Short below life's little morning, 

For they live in Eden fair ; 
Ah ! our old hearts yearn how fondly 

Soon again to find them there. 
1863. St. Ephraim (Syriac), 

[From the German version of Zwingli, 



124 



LUCIS LARGITOR SPLENDIDE. 

ALL-GLORIOUS Giver of the light, 
In whose unclouded ray, 
After the shadows of the night, 
Blooms the new-risen day ! 

Thou art the world's true morning-star, 

Not he, that lesser one, 
Twinkling a feeble speck afar, 

Pale herald of the sun. 

O brighter than the noontide gleam ; 

Day, sun full-orbed Thou art, 
Piercing with Thine eternal beam 

The cloisters of the heart. 

Builder of living worlds, draw nigh ! 

Smile of the Father's face ; 
Our happy souls wide open lie 

To Thy soft-coming grace. 

Filled with Thy Spirit, may we keep 

God's presence aye within ; 
125 



LUCIS LARGITOR SPLENDIDE. 

Nor through these hallowed portals creep 
The stealthy feet of sin. 

Amidst thick-coming cares, that fill 

The hours of daily time, 
Our law shall be Thy perfect will, 

Our conscience clear of crime ! 

With virgin shame may the chaste mind 
Our earth-born passions chain ; 

And in this body, pure enshrined, 
The Holy Ghost remain. 

Be this glad hope our matin song. 

This, Lord, our sacrifice ! 
O morning light, through midnight long 

Watch with unsleeping eyes ! 

Hilary. 

1859. 

126 



BEATA NOBIS GAUDIA. 

GLADSOME feast ! of all most dear, 
Circling with the sacred year ; 
When upon the waiting host 
Burning fell the Holy Ghost. 

Quivering like a cloven tongue, 
Heavenly light above them hung ; 
On their lips a word it came, 
In their hearts a living flame. 

Now in every voice they spake ; 
Awed the listening heathen shake ; 
Theirs no fire of maddening wine, 
Drank they from the cup divine. 

Mystic truth ! to Israel old, 

In the Paschal symbol told ; 

When the closing Jubilee 

Set the happy bondsmen free. 
127 



BEAT A NOBIS GAUDIA. 

God of boundless Pity, now 
With a lowly face we bow ; 
Give Thy Spirit from above, 
With the largess of Thy love. 

Thou, whose gracious tides could pour 

On those hallowed hearts before ; 

Let our sinful bondage cease, 

Bring our Jubilee of peace. 

Hilary. 

1859. 

128 



AURORA LUCIS RUTILAT. 

1\ /rORNING purples now the skies ; 
■'"'-'■ Warbles heaven with harmonies ; 
Earth in jubilee rejoices ; 
Groaneth hell with angry voices. 

Lo ! awakes th' Almighty King : 
Death lies bruised and grovelling ; 
Shaking Hades with His tread, 
Leads He forth the unfettered dead. 

He in rocky prison barred, 
Slumbering 'neath the keen-eyed guard, 
Conqueror from His funeral gate, 
Marches with triumphal state. 

Loosed the pains of souls below, 

Hushed are all the sighs of woe ; 

And the gleaming angel cries : 

" See the living Lord arise ! " 

St. Ambrose. 
i860. 

129 



STERNA CHRTSTI MUNERA. 



ETERNAL offerings of the Son : 
Trophies by martyr valor won ; 
For these the homage of our praise 
"We yield in our rejoicing lays. 



Kings of the holy churches crowned, 
Chiefs on her famous battle-ground, 
Guards in the palace of the King, 
True stars the world illumining. 

Above the fear of man upborne. 
Trampling the flesh in noble scorn, 
A holy death to them was gain 
The life eternal to obtain. 

Meek sufferers ! in the burning pile, 
Or torn by savage teeth they smile ; 
In maddening rage the torturer stands, 
And brutal weapons arm his hands. 
130 



^ TERN A CHRIS TI M UN ERA . 

Bare hang the mangled limbs, and wide 
Pours every wound its sacred tide ; 
Yet all untouched amidst the strife, 
The grace of an immortal life. 

The faith that fires the saintly still, 
The yearning hope no doubt can kill, 
The perfect love of Christ, the Lord, 
Has triumphed o'er the foeman's sword. 

In them the Father's glory shone ; 
In them Christ's lowly will is done ; 
In them exults the Holy Ghost, 
And smiles with joy the heavenly host. 

Redeemer, grant Thy servants' prayer ; 

Grant us Thy holy cross to bear, 

And in the noble army found. 

With palms of endless life be crowned. 

St. Ambrose. 
i860. 

131 



O! GENS BEATA CGELITUM. 

HAPPY ones of heavenly race ! 
Bright phalanx of the holy powers ! 
What overflowing fulness showers 
Upon you from the Fount of Grace ! 
The Highest Lord, His solace best 
Hath given to you, ye spirits blest : 
Vision of our eternal rest. 

Before the splendour of your light 
The quivering lamps of heaven pale ; 
The royal sun himself doth fail, 
And all the marvels of the night : 
And if, beyond these feeble eyes 
More golden suns than ours arise. 
Dark are they to your upper skies. 

Forms as the crystal, pure of stain. 

Your minds of piercing thought enfold ; 

And as the threads of finest gold, 

Or the red coral every vein ; 
132 



O ! GENS BE A TA CCELITUM. 

Thro' these the gracious life-blood glows, 
And sweeter far than earthly rose, 
Or than the dropping balm it flows. 

Ye in the sinless Eden dwell, 
Wreathing, as pass the eternal hours, 
Crowns of the many-coloured flowers, 
Lily and purple daffodil ; 
One only blossom, opening there. 
Flings thousand sweets upon the air, 
As breath of your own spirits rare. 

There doth the Father's table stand, 
Ever with heavenly banquet graced, 
And with our God Himself ye feast. 
Tasting rich dainties from His hand : 
The river of all sweetness rolls. 
Ambrosial cates, and nectared bowls ; 
No thirst, no hunger for your souls. 

What joys that happy palace throng ! 
What music glad that world inspires ! 
The harmony of myriad lyres ! 
All voices, yet one holy song : 
133 



! GEXS BE A TA CXELITUM. 

Breaks in full tide the choral strain ; 
How sweet, how soft it melts again : 
Earth echoes that high chant in vain. 

On the unveiled God ye gaze, 
Seeing His presence face to face ; 
The bliss that floods the holy place, 
From His unshadowed glory rays : 
Eye cannot pierce, tongue cannot tell 
The life wherein your spirits dwell : 
To the dull world ineffable. 

St. x\ugustin. 
1859. 

134 



QUID, TYRANNE, QUID MINARIS ? 

WHY, O tyrant Sin ! thy raging ? 
All thy bitter woes combine, 
All thy arts of malice waging ; 

Naught are these to love divine. 
Sweet to me is every torment, 
Feeble is the power of pain : 
Love is greater, Love is stronger ; 
Better death than earthly stain. 

Light the cruel pile around me. 

Smite me with the sharpest sword ; 
To the cross of anguish bind me, 

Dying with my dying Lord : 
Sweet to me is every torment, 

Feeble is the power of pain : 
Love is greater, Love is stronger ; 

Better death than earthly stain. 

Mild, too mild for Thee my trial ! 

Death but once, how brief its stroke ! 
135 



QUID, TYRAXXE. QL'ID MIXARIS? 

Mine life's cross of self-denial, 
Mine to bear Thy easy yoke. 

Sweet to me is every torment, 
Feeble is the power of pain ; 

Love is greater, Love is stronger : 
Better death than earthly stain. 

1S59. St. Augustin, 

136 



N 



JAM MCESTA QUIESCE QUERELA. 

O more, ah, no more sad complaining ; 
Resign these fond pledges to earth : 
Stay, mothers, the thick-falling tear-drops ; 
This death is a heavenly birth. 

What mean these still caverns of marble. 
Fair shrines that the dear ashes keep ? 

How sweetly they tell of the loved ones, 
Not dead, but soft resting in sleep ! 

What though on the pale, icy forehead. 
No gleam of the intellect break ? 

A moment it slumbers, till nobler 
Its pov/ers in their beauty awake. 

Soon, soon, through the motionless body, 
The warm, loving life-tide shall pour, 

And blushing with joy, shall revisit 
The home it has dwelt in before. 

These clods, 'neath the hillock reposing, 
Long wasting in silent decay, 
137 



J A M MCE STA Q UIE SCE Q U ERE LA . 

Shall follow the souls that have loved them, 
On winged wings soaring away. 

So green from the seed springs the blossom, 
Long perished, long hid in the mould ; 

And fresh from the turf, it remembers 
The wide-waving harvests of old. 

Take, Earth, to thy bosom so tender, — 
Take, nourish this body ; how fair, 

How noble in death ! we surrender 
These relics of man to thy care. 

This, this was the home of the spirit, 
Once built by the breath of our God ; 

And here in the light of His wisdom, 
Christ, Head of the risen, abode. 

Guard well the dear treasure we lend thee : 
The Maker, the Saviour of men, 

Shall never forget His beloved. 
But claim His own likeness again. 

Speed on, perfect year, to the morning ; 

God's fulness shall dawn on the just. 
And thou, open Grave, shall restore us 

This holy, unchangeable dust. 

1859. Prudentius. 

138 



DE CRUCE CHRISTI. 

[Crux benedicta nitet, Dominus qu^ carne pependit.] 

BLESSED gleameth the cross, where hung 
the Incarnate Redeemer, 
And in His blood is found healing for every 

wound. 
Meekly in love for our souls the Lamb was 

the innocent victim, 
And from the wolf's fell jaws the sheep of His 

pasture He draws. 
Pierced were the holy palms, to rescue the 

world from its ruin. 
And in His own sad doom, shuts He the gate of 

the tomb. 
Here that hand with the bloody nails to the 

wood was fastened. 
Which a Paul from his sin, Peter from death 

could win. 
Mighty in fruitfulness, O thou Tree so sweet 
and so noble, 

139 



DE CRUCE CHRIST I. 

How do thy branches bear, fresh blooming 

fruit and fair. 
Breathing thy rich perfume, the dead arise 

from their slumber, 
And wake to the fairer day, then vanish from 

earth away. 
Never scorches the summer under thy wide- 
spreading shadows. 
Never the noontide light, never the moon by 

night. 
Beautiful art thou, planted where still waters 

are flowing. 
Green are thy leafy showers, mingled with 

richest flowers. 
Clingeth to thee the vine, enwrapt in thy loving 

embraces ; 
Sweetly from thee doth glide, the blood-red, 

life-giving tide. 

1859. FORTUNATUS. 

140 



NUNTIUM VOBIS FERO DE SUPERNIS 

TIDINGS I bear from heaven of joy excel- 
ling ; 
Born is the Christ, Lord of this earthly dwell- 
ing, 
In Bethlehem, as in vision old foretelling 
The prophets holy. 

Him hailed the angel choir with joyous singing ; 
A star declared Him, the wise princes bringing 
From Eastern lands, their mystic tribute fling- 
ing 

In worship lowly. 

Incense to God, myrrh for His death of bless- 
ing, 

Spangles of gold for Him, earth's throne pos- 
sessing. 

One, yet the Blessed Trinity confessing, 
Three giving threefold. 

i860. Gregory. 

141 



VENI, SANCTE SPIRITUS. 

COME, O Spirit ! Fount of grace ! 
From Thy heavenly dwelling-place 
One bright morning beam impart : 
Come, O Father of the poor ; 
Come, O Source of bounties sure ; 
Come, O Sunshine of the heart ! 

Comforter of man the best ! 
Making the sad soul Thy guest ; 

Sweet refreshing in our fears, 
In our labour a retreat, 
Cooling shadow in the heat. 

Solace in our falling tears. 

O ! thrice blessed light divine ! 

Come, the spirit's inmost shrine 

With Thy holy presence fill ; 

Of Thy brooding love bereft, 

Naught to hopeless man is left ; 

Naught is his but evil still. 
142 



VENI, SANCTE SPIRIT US. 

Wash away each earthly stain, 
Flow o'er this parched waste again, 

Heal the wounds of conscience sore, 
Bind the stubborn will within, 
Thaw the icy chains of sin. 

Guide us, that we stray no more. 

Give, to Thy believers give. 
In Thy holy hope who live. 

All Thy sevenfold dower of love ; 
Give the sure reward of faith, 
Give the love that conquers death, 
Give unfailing joy above. 
i860. Robert of France. 

143 



GRAVI ME TERRORE PULSAS. 

WITH what heavy fear thou smitest 
At my breast, Life's closing day ! 
Faints my heart ; my reins are loosened 

Melts my torn and shivering clay ; 
With foreboding sad that image 
Doth the troubled mind pourtray. 

Who to pierce that scene of terror 

Can his mortal vision send ? 
When the narrow race is rounded, 

And the wrestling soul shall rend 
All the earthly ties that bind it, 

Hasting to its mournful end. 

Dies the sense ; the lips are stiffened ; 

Roll the clouded eyes in vain : 
Pants the bosom ; hoarse the whisper 

Gasping from the breath of pain : 

Pale the face ; the limbs are palsied, 

Grace nor motion there remain. 
144 



GRA VI ME TERRORE FULSAS. 

See ! as mighty currents parted, 

The unbodied spirits flow : 
Here the shining powers angelic, 

There the daemon crowd of woe ; 
Each unto his doom self-chosen, 

With resistless feet shall go. 

All our inmost thoughts, endeavours, 
Words and deeds before us rise, 

All a marshalled host assembled, 
Bare to our unwilling eyes. 

Turn we hither, glance we thither, 
Lo ! the cloud of witnesses. 

Ah ! how doth the gnawing conscience 
Now the guilty bosom tear ; 

Memory calls each ebbing season 
With the summons of despair ; 

Saddening sentence ! late repentance 
Only sighs a fruitless prayer. 

Now the sweet of earth deluding 

Into bitter poison turns ; 
Now the riot of a moment 

As an endless sorrow burns ; 
145 



GRA VI ME TERRORS FULSAS. 

And in all our fancied greatness 
Empty nothing it discerns. 

Hear me, Christ ! O King unconquered I 
Hear Thy hapless suppliant call ! 

In the day of death, that cometh 
Th}^ stern messenger to all, 

Shield me, that I may not victim 
To the impious tyrant fall. 

Perish the fell Prince of Darkness ! 

Perish all his hellish pride ! 
Then Thy ransomed flock, O Shepherd \ 

To the fold of heaven guide, 
Where in living pastures feeding, 
They may evermore abide. 
i860. Petrus Damiani. 

146 



i86i. 



AUDI, TELLUS, AUDI. 

HEAR, earth, hear God's decree ; 
Cave of the mighty sea ; 
Hear, man, hear every one 
That dwells beneath the sun. 

It Cometh, it is near ; 
The day of wrath and fear ; 
Wo ! for that bitter day ; 
When fleeth Heaven away ; 
Gloweth the sun blood red ; 
The moon no longer burneth ; 
Morning to blackness turneth ; 
Earthward the wan stars fall : 
Upon that day of dread, 
Woe ! woe ! for sinners all. 
In guilt and misery, 
What shall our portion be ? 

Anonymous. 

147 



CUR MUNDUS MILITAT 

WHY battles all the world 
For its vain glory, 
Whose bravest happiness 
Is transitory ? 

So soon its brittle power 
A light touch shaketh, 

Even as a vase of clay 
In pieces breaketh. 

Write words upon the ice 
And trust their staying, 

Sooner than idle cheats 
Of earth decaying. 

Flattered with baubles gay, 
In truth's mask hiding, 

Thy life's a little day 
Of false confiding. 
148 



CUR iMUNDUS MI LI TAT, 

Better to plant thy trust 
In wise men's teaching, 

Than for the wretched gauds 
Of fortune reaching. 

False are its airy dreams, 
And false its pleasing, 

Its labours and its lusts 
A hollow leasing. 

Say, where is Solomon, 
Of wisdom vaunted ; 

And stoutest Samson now, 
The chief undaunted ? 

Say, where is Absalom, 

Of beauty royal ; 
And Jonathan, the heart 

To friendship loyal ? 

Where hath the Caesar left 
His empire splendid ? 

And Dives' banqueting 
In sorrow ended ? 

Say, where is Tully's voice 

In senates burning? 
149 



CUR MUNDUS MI LI TAT. 

And the wise Stagyrite, 
Master of learning ? 

Such leaders of renown ; 

Such bygone spaces ; 
Such stately brows of old, 

Such kingly races ; 

Such potentates of earth, 
The boast of story ; — 

One flashing of an eye. 
And gone their glory ! 

How brief a holyday 
Man's pomp abideth, 

And all his pleasure gay 
A shadow glideth ! 

Feast of the crawling worm ! 

Dust to dust crumbled ! 
Drop of the morning dew. 

Be thy pride humbled ! 

Even to-morrow's fate 

Veiled from thy blindness, 

Crowd thou to-day with deeds 

Of loving-kindness. 
150 



i859. 



CUR MUNDUS MI LIT A T. 

This glory of the flesh, 

Which man paradeth, 
The Holy Book doth call 

A flower that fadeth. 

Even as the shrivelled leaf 

On the wind sweeping, 
So drops the life of man, 

To darkness creeping. 

Call not thine own, whate'er 

A moment liveth ; 
The world shall snatch again 

All that it giveth ; 

Ponder the things above ! 

Happy, whose treasure, 
Garnered in heaven, scorns 

The base world's pleasure. 

Bernard of Clairvaux. 

151 



AD COR CHRISTI. 

SUM MI REGIS COR, AVETO. 

HEART of Christ, my King, I greet Thee ! 
Gladly goes my heart to meet Thee ; 
To embrace Thee now it burneth, 
And with eager thirst it yearneth, 

Spirit blest, to talk with Thee. 
Oh ! what love divine compelling ! 
With what grief Thy breast was swelling I 
All Thy soul for us o'erflowing, 
All Thy life on us bestowing, 

Sinful men from death to free ! 

Oh, that death ! in bitter anguish, 
Cruel, pitiless to languish ! 
To the inmost cell it entered, 
AVhere the life of man was centered, 

GnaAving Thy sweet heart-strings there. 
For that death which Thou hast tasted, 
For that form by sorrow wasted. 

Heart to my heart ever nearest, 
152 



AD COR CHRIS 11. 

Kindle in me love the dearest ; 
This, O Lord, is all my prayer. 

O sweet Heart ! my choicest blessing, 
Cleanse my heart, its sin confessing ; 
Hardened in its worldly folly, 
Make it soft again, and holy, 

Melting all its icy ground. 
To my heart's core come and quicken 
Me a sinner, conscience-stricken ; 
Be Thy grace my soul renewing. 
All its powers to Thee subduing. 

Languishing with love's sweet wound. 

Open flower, with blossom fairest, 
As a rose of fragrance rarest ; 
Knit to Thee mine inmost feeling ; 
Pierce, then pour the oil of healing ; 

What to love of Thee is pain ? 
Naught he fears, whom Thy love calleth, 
No self-sacrifice appalleth ; 
Love divine can have no measure, 
Every death to him is pleasure. 

Where such holy love doth reign. 
153 



AD COR CHRISTI. 

Cries my heart with living voices : 
In Thee, heart of Christ, rejoices ; 
Draw Thou nigh with gracious motion, 
Knit it, till in full devotion 

Thou its every power employ. 
Love be all my life ; no slumber 
E'er my drowsy thought encumber ; 
To Thee praying, Thee imploring, 
Thee aye praising. Thee adoring, 

Thee my sempiternal joy ! 

Heart Rose, in Thy fulness blossom, 
Shed Thy perfume o'er my bosom ; 
Be Thy beauty in me growing ; 
Light the fires forever glov/ing 

On the altar of my heart. 
Aid me, Thy dear image wearing. 
E'en Thy wounds, my Jesu, sharing. 
Till Thy very form I borrow, 
When my bosom feels Thy sorrow, 

Piercing with its keenest dart. 

To Thy holy heart, oh, take me ! 
Thy companion, Jesu, make me, 
154 



AD COR CHRISTI. 

In that sorrow joy exceeding, 

In that beauty scarred and bleeding, 

Till my heart be wholly Thine. 
Rest, my soul ! now naught shall sever ; 
After Thee it follows ever ; 
Here its thirst finds glad fulfilling ; 
Jesu ! be Thou not unwilling, 

Take this loving heart of mine ! 

Bernard of Clairvaux. 



155 



IN TERRIS ADHUC POSITAM. 

ON earth awhile, 'mid sufferings tried, 
Still hears the Church, the holy Bride, 
Her Lord from heaven, calling with daily cr}^ 
Bidding her heart ascend to Him on high. 

" Draw me," she answers, " after Thee ; 
Stretch Thy right hand to succour me : 
On winged wings Thou soarest to the skies ; 
Without Thy wings, how can I thither rise ? " 

Ask for the pinions of the dove, 

To hasten to that nest of love ; 

Ask thou the eagle's plumes of tireless might. 

That thou may'st climb to the eternal height. 

Both wings and eyes will He bestow, 
That thou the sun's unclouded glow 
With thy undazzled glances may'st behold. 
And drink the blessedness to man untold. 

Only to winged beings given 

Is that fair home of upper heaven ; 

And there the holy souls find kindred place, 

To whom our God shall grant the wings of 

grace. 

i860. , Abelard. 

156 



HYMNI NOCTURNI. 

FRUIT-BEARING trees the earth adorn, 
And now the heavenly lamps are born. 
Sun, moon, and stars a living picture glow, 
Sources of blessing wide to all below. 

This goodly building now, O man ! 

On every side in wonder scan : 
The realm of heaven confesses it is thine. 
And for thy service beam these orbs divine. 

He basks him in the wintry rays. 

For whom no kindly hearth may blaze ; 

And for his lantern in the night 

The poor man hath the moon and starry light 

The rich reclines on ivory bed. 

The greensward for the poor is spread ; 

For him the birds their softest carols sing, 

The flowers their breath of sweetest perfume 

fling. 

157 



. H ] \Myi NO C T URN I. 

O rich man, at a price too dear 
Dost thou th)^ tottering palace rear, 
Painting upon the vaulted ceiling high. 
False sun, false stars within a mimic sk5^ 

Beneath the true, the heavenly dome, 
Hath the poor man his beauteous home. 
On that the Maker with His fingers drew 
A real sun, and starry torches true. 

Ah ! than man's building nobler far 
The works of lordly nature are : 
Created without toil, or earthly gold. 
Time crumbles not, nor makes them ever old. 

Man only serves the rich man's state ; 

But on the poor the angels wait : 

All tells us how the generous God has given 

To us, His sons, the highest things of heaven. 

Abelard. 
i860. 

1.8 



MUNDI RENOVATIO. 

QEE ! with nature's joyous birth 

^ Spring a thousand forms of mirth 

From its slumber all the earth 

Rises with the Risen King ; 
All things know the Maker's sway, 
Conscious of His holy day 

Come with festal offering. 

Cloudless now the heavens blest, 
Gentlier heaves the ocean's breast, 
Softly sinks the wind to rest ; 

Blooming is our valley's face. 
Green the withered sod awakes, 
And the ice-bound streamlet breaks. 

Warmed by loving spring's embrace. 

Life o'er death the victory wins ; 
Man anew the joy begins. 
Lost how early by his sins : 
Blissful Eden is restored ; 
Open flies the welcoming door. 
And the cherub stern no more 

Waves on high the flaming sword. 
i860. Adam of St. Victor. 

159 



O ESCA VIATORUM! 

FOOD for the wayworn given ! 
Bread that soft drops from heaven ! 
Manna the angels eat ! 
Our hungered spirits feeding, 
Let not one sick soul needing 
Lose this immortal sweet. 

O ! spring of love excelling ! 
Pure wave, forever welling 

From out the Saviour's heart ! 
Be thou our thirst's allaying ; 
Thy gift is all our praying ; 

Thou all our fulness art. 

Jesu ! Thy beauty hidden, 
To our dim eyes forbidden, 

Daily we here adore ; 
Grant us, Thy face unveiling. 
In Thine own glorious dwelling 

To see Thee evermore. 

i860. Thomas Aquinas. 

160 



RECORDARE SANCT.E CRUCIS. 

pONDER thou the Cross all holy, 

■•■ Who wilt tread the pathway lowly 

To the perfect joy above : 
Thou the holy cross aye ponder, 
And with an uncloying wonder, 
Drink its mysteries of love. 

When thou toilest, when thou sleepest. 
When thou smilest, when thou weepest, 

Sad or gladsome if thou art ; 
In thy coming, in thy going, 
Whether pain or solace knowing. 

Keep the cross within thy heart. 

In the cross, 'mid burdens aching, 
Heaviest waves above thee breaking. 

Thine unending comfort find ; 
Though 'midst cruel foes thou languish, 
Sweet the cross in every anguish, 

Refuge of the pious mind. 
i6i 



RECORD A RE SANCTM CRUCIS, 

Cross, of Paradise the portal, 

Where have clung the souls immortal, 

Victors in this earthly strife ; 
Holy cross, the whole world's healing. 
By it is God's love revealing 

Marvels of eternal light. 

Cross of Christ, the soul's well-being, 
Light unshadowed for our seeing, 

For the heart its sweetest good ; 
Cross, the life ail saints indwelling, 
Storehouse of all gifts excelling. 

Beauty and beatitude. 

Cross, the glass of brave endeavour ; 
Leader of our triumph ever, 

Hope the faithful to inspire ; 
Badge of the elect of heaven ; 
Succour in our trial given ; 

Fulness of the soul's desire. 

Cross, the tree in beauty growing. 

Hallowed by Christ's life-blood flowing, 

Hanging with full-ripened load ; 

Bounty for all spirits bearing, 
162 



RECORDARE SANCT^ CRUCIS. 

An immortal banquet sharing 
With the blessed sons of God. 

Crucified, oh, make me stronger. 
While my life is spared me longer, 

Still to know Thy suffering ; 
With Thee wounded, with Thee dying. 
To that Form before me lying 

On the holy cross, I cling. 

1859. BONAVENTURA. 



163 



OMNIS MUNDI CREATURA. 

SEE in every earth-born creature, 
As a mirror tells each feature, 
An illuminated scroll. 
All our life, and our decaying. 
All its changeful lot pourtraying ; 
Truthful image of the soul ! 

In the rose thy painted glory ; 
Read thou there thy human story, 

Emblem of thy fading pride ! 
See its bud the daylight drinking, 
Flowerless its stem is sinking 

With the early eventide. 

With each breath away 'tis breathing. 
And its beauty pale bequeathing 

In the cradle to the tomb : 
Old with new in fast embracing, 
Hoary age is childhood chasing, 

Blight is hiding in its bloom. 
164 



MNJS MUNDI CREA TURA. 

So the spring of life is dawning, 
Flowering youth at rosy morning 

Opes awhile its petals white : 
Soon the day with shadow blendeth, 
And the creeping twilight endeth 

In the funeral pall of night. 

Even its blossom is its wasting, 
Ever is its beauty hasting 

Toward age, an ebbing wave ; 
Gem is clay, the flow'ret's splendour 
Withering grass, and man shall render 

Dust to dust within the grave. 

All his being, his endeavour 
Pain and ease and want forever 

To one mortal limit flows ; 
Dark on light, and pain on laughter ; 
Calm, and stormy ocean after. 

Morn and evening's silent close. 

Early sorrow on us stealing 
Is decay's sad face revealing ; 
Toil is but a mimic death ; 
Every trial its foretelling, 
165 



OMNIS MUNDI CREATURA, 

Every grief the moment knelling, 
When the brief scene vanisheth. 

Know, O man, the law that Heaven 
To thy mortal state has given ; 

Thine confess this fading lot ; 
What thou wast, ere born to sorrow. 
What to-day, and what to-morrow. 

Know, and ah ! forget it not. 

Mourn the sin that bringeth sadness. 
Break thy pride, and curb thy madness. 

Cast th)^ lofty looks away : 
Lord of souls ! our life-course guiding. 
In Thy narrow path abiding, 

Never may our footsteps stray. 

Alanus Insulanus. 
i860. 

166 



VITA NOSTRA PLENA BELLIS. 

LIFE, O man, is all a battle. 
Ever 'midst the iron rattle, 
Ever camped 'mid crafty foes ; 
Wakes the trumpet sound each morrow ; 
Crash of arms, and wail of sorrow 
Breaks on every night's repose. 

Yet by every fear undaunted, 
In the stormy onset planted. 

Stand I all unshaken still ; 
Not the wrath of man can wound me, 
Not the marshalled legions round me, 

Not the bolts of deadliest skill. 

Lo ! in thickest clouds He marches, 
He who bends from heaven's arches, 

Ruler of the starry throne : 
He against the foeman shieldeth, 
He the eternal weapons wieldeth, 

And my battle is His own. 
167 



VITA xYOSTRA FLEX A B ELLIS. 

He the bow, the arrow breaketh, 
He the mail-clad warrior shaketh 

With His everlasting flame ; 
Fearless stand I, never flying, 
All the angry host defying, 

More than conqueror in His name. 

Alanus Insulanus. 

1859. 

168 



ALL ANGELS. 

E]^VER stand the Angel throng, 
■^ Lauding God in holy song; 
Gazing on their glorious King, 
With the heart, the voice, they sing ; 
Harp-notes flinging, timbrels ringing, 
Now on golden plumes up-springing, 
Climbing on the heavenly stair ; 
Sweet bells blending, white-robed bending 
Near the highest Trinity ; 
Holy, Holy, Holy, crying : 
Flieth sorrow, ceaseth sighing, 
In that city of the sky. 
Mingled are all happy voices. 
One that in their God rejoices ; 
Love in every mind is burning, 
In pure vision upward turning 
To the Eternal One, the Blessed Trine. 

Ail the glowing seraphim 
169 



ALL AXGELS. 

With a heart of fire adore Him ; 
All the keen-eyed cherubim 
Veil their faces low before Him ; 
Awed, the Thrones behold the Majesty 
Divine. 

Oh, how wonderful that region ! 

Oh, how beautiful that legion ! 

Men with Angels ever bright ! 

Shining city, aye in Thee 

Reigneth full tranquillity, 

In Thy borders peace and light. 

Dwellers of this city fair. 

Garments white of chasteness wear ; 

In one household of sweet love, 

One unbroken circle move. 

Naught of darkness, naught of care. 

Grief, temptation, haunteth there : 

Free from sickness, ever blest. 

Theirs of every good the best. 

Thomas a Kempis. 
i860. 

170 



ANTIPHONA AD NOCTURXOS. 

IN midst of life 
We are in death ; 
■ From whom may succour be, 
O Lord, save Thee, 
Whose anger just our sins remembereth ? 

Yet, Holy Lord, 
Holy and mighty ever, 
Holy and full of grace, 
Redeemer of our race, 
To bitter death do not our souls deliver. 

Anonymous. 

[Eleventh Century. 



17] 



ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 

[" Verbum Dei, Deo natum."] 

WORD of God, begotten Son, 
Uncreate, eternal one, 
Coming from the bliss above, 
John beheld Him, and revealed. 
And to mortal minds unsealed, 
That deep mystery of love. 

'Midst the primal rivers, fed 

From the Truth's own fountain-head 

That quick-leaping spirit flowed ; 
For the world the nectar gave, 
Drawn from out the crystal wave, 

Gushing by the throne of God. 

Heaven he trod, undazzled gazed 

Where the true sun's axle blazed ; 

Seer of unearthly things ; 

And the face of God he saw, 

As the seraphs look in awe 

Underneath their shading wings. 
172 



ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 

Heard he, round the eternal seat, 
All the Elders chaunting sweet 

The new song to harps divine ; 
And on earthly city's gold 
Stamped he with the heavenly mould, 

Signet of the Blessed Trine. 

Bird of God, with boundless flight 
Soaring from beyond the height 

Of the bard or prophet old ; 
Truth fulfilled and truth to be, 
Never purer mystery 

Did a purer tongue unfold. 

In His robe of blood-red dyes, 
Seen, yet hid from human eyes : 

To His palace Christ withdrew : 
Heavenly comfort to bestow 
On His weeping Bride below, 

Lo ! the prophet eagle flew. 

Say, beloved one, how fair 
Our Beloved is ; declare 

His glad message to His Bride ; 
173 



ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 

Say what food the angels taste, 
How the sons of heaven feast 
In that presence glorified. 

Give us of the living bread, 
Supper which thy spirit fed, 

Leaning on the Saviour's breast ; 
That with thee the endless Psalm, 
Near the throne, before the Lamb, 

We may sing in heaven blest. 
i860. Anonymous. 

[Thirteenth Century.] 
174 



ALTITUDO, QUID HIC JACKS? 

HEIGHT of heaven, why art Thou lying 
Cradled in a stable base ? 
Maker of the starry torches, 

Hides a manger cold Thy face ? 
Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 

Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 
Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 

Might divine becometh weakness ; 

Infinite a babe could be ; 
In a mortal womb imprisoned, 

Born — behold Eternity ! 
Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 

Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 

Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 

Thou with childish lips wast clinging 
To the stainless Virgin's breast ; 
175 



ALT/TUDO, Q UID HIC J A CE S ? 

Tear-drops from Thine eyes were springing, 

Thou, the joy of heaven blest ! 
Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 

Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 

Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 
1859. Anonymous, 

[Fourteenth Century.] 
176 



PARVUM QUANDO CERNO DEUM. 

WHEN within His mother's arms 
I the infant God behold, 
All my heart the vision warms 
With a blessedness untold. 

Leaps He, mother ! leaps the Boy, 
Gazing at thy holy breast ! 

Kisses with a smile of joy. 
Thousand kisses, fondly prest ! 

As upon the stainless skies 

Peaceful hangs the new-born sun. 

So upon thy bosom lies, 

Mother pure, thy Holy One. 

Ah ! how lovely that repose ! 

Mother with the Infant fair, 

Twined as with the tender rose, 

Violet and lily are. 
177 



PARVUM QUANDO CERNO DEUM. 

Many a silent clasp of bliss, 
Many a look of smiling love, 

As the flowers the meadow kiss, 
As the starry eyes above. 

Oh ! if one such loving dart. 
Falling on that mother mild, 

May but fall within my heart. 
Infant Jesu, Holy Child ! 
1859. Anonymous. 

[Fourteenth Century. 
178 



PONE LUCTUM MAGDALENA ! 

STILL thy sorrow, Magdalena ! 
Wipe the tear-drops from thine eyes ; 
Not at Simon's board thou kneelest, 

Pouring thy repentant sighs : 
All with thy glad heart rejoices ; 
All things sing with happy voices : 
Hallelujah ! 

Laugh with rapture, Magdalena ! 

Be thy drooping forehead bright ; 
Banished now is every anguish. 

Breaks anew thy morning light ; 
Christ from death the world hath freed ; 
He is risen, is risen indeed : 
Hallelujah ! 

Joy ! exult, O Magdalena ! 

He hath burst the rocky prison ; 

Ended are the days of darkness ; 

Conqueror hath He arisen. 
179 



PONE LUCTUM MAGDALENA, 

Mourn no more the Christ departed ; 
Run to welcome Him, glad-hearted : 
Hallelujah ! 

Lift thine eyes, O Magdalena ! 

See ! thy living Master stands ; 
See His face, as ever, smiling ; 

See those wounds upon His hands, 
On His feet. His sacred side, — 
Gems that deck the Glorified : 
Hallelujah ! 

Live, now live, O Magdalena ! 

Shining is thy new-born day ; 
Let thy bosom pant with pleasure. 

Death's poor terror flee away ; 
Far from thee the tears of sadness, 
Welcome love, and welcome gladness ! 

Hallelujah ! 
1859. Anonymous. 

[Fourteenth Century.] 
180 



O! QUANTA, QUALIA SUNT ILLA 
SABBATA. 

HOW great, how beautiful that Sabbath rest, 
Kept in the court eternal of the blest ! 
Repose for weary souls ! for brave reward ! 
For there our All in all shall be the Lord. 

What King ! what holy court ! what palace 

fair ! 
What peace ! what solace ! what rejoicing 

there ! 
Ye glorious dwellers ! your own joy reveal, 
If ye can utter all your spirits feel. 

The true Jerusalem ! that state above ! 
Whose peace unending is our highest love ; 
Where longing hope cannot true joy forerun ; 
Where perfect happiness and hope are one ! 

There shall our sorrowings forever cease, 
And Sion's lofty songs we sing in peace ; 
i8i 



0! QUAX7 A, QUALIA SUNT ILLA SABBATA, 

Thy happy people, Lord, before Thy face, 
Pay gracious offerings for Thy gifts of grace. 

There still a Sabbath new on Sabbath rolls, 
An endless holy day of holy souls. 
That chant ineffable, rise evermore. 
Which saints in glory with the angels pour. 

Thither we lift, O God, our waiting eyes ; 
And see our fatherland in hope arise. 
Homeward from Babylon we fondly yearn, 
After long, weary exile to return. 
i860. Anonymous. 

[Fourteenth Century.] 
182 



AVE ROSA SPINIS PUNCTA. 

HAIL, O Rose, transpierced with thorns, 
Hail, O thorn the rose adorns ! 
Not for sin, but for our cure, 
Didst Thou, Lord, these thorns endure. 

Hail, O Rose, with thorn-prints cloven ! 
Hail, O thorn, with roses woven ! 
Grace divine, that passeth knowing. 
Gifts of life thro' thorn bestowing 
In the pity of our Lord. 

Anonymous. 

[Fifteenth Century.] 



ib3 



IN NATALI DOMINI. 

ON the birthday of the Lord 
Angel hosts with one accord 
Chaunt with joy before the throne ; 
Glory to one God alone. 
The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
The Virgin ever stainless. 

Born is our Emmanuel ; 
Gabriel did the day foretell ; 
Prophets hailed the dawning sun, 
Him, the sole begotten one. 
The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
The Virgin bore the Christ adored. 
The Virgin ever stainless. 

Lo ! a seraph tells the tale : 

Shepherds glad in hill and dale 

Sing the holy Saviour's birth, 

Sweetest tidings for the earth. 
184 



JN NA TALI DOMINI. 

The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
The Virgin ever stainless. 

Hail to-day the happy morn, 
Hail the Son from Mary born, 
Born of God's o'ershadowing might, 
God of God and light of light. 
The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
The Virgin ever stainless. 

See the Eastern kings adore. 
Gold and myrrh and incense pour. 
Bending to the Eternal King, 
Glory to our God they sing. 
The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
The Virgin bore the Christ adored. 
The Virgin ever stainless. 

Anonymous. 

[Sixteenth Century. 
185 



CUM ME TENENT FALLACIA. 

WHEN fleeting earth with pleasures vain 
Hath bound my soul to heav}^ chain, 
In heaven the angel bright, who keeps 
His sleepless watch, beholds and weeps. 

But when my sorrowing tears I pour, 
And all my sins to God deplore, 
Then smiles with joy the angel fair, 
Whose heart is touched with all m}" care. 

Away, deceitful world ! away ! 
Ye shadowy joys, no longer stay ! 
Come, tears of grief, and ceaseless flow, 
To wash my sin, to tell my woe. 

O let me not in reckless years, 

Still cause those holy angels tears ; 

But while I mourn with sorrow true, 

Ever those angel smiles renew. 

i860. Alard. 

186 







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